I started my life in a little blue house with a white picket fence.   The little blue house was perfect, because I only lived there until I was four, so all of my memories there are idyllic.  I had no idea what was going on, what with my innocence and all.  But, I remember that in that little blue house with the white picket fence, I had two parents and a big backyard, and let’s face it, that’s what kids really want.

The little blue house with the white picket fence got sold in the divorce.  Subsequently, I moved a lot as a child.   And by a lot, I mean I went to ten schools in the first eight years.  So, you know, alawt!  Moving so often made me more independent and adaptable, I’ll admit, but it didn’t prevent my envy of those who didn’t need to develop those skills in kindergarten.

I always envied people with intact families, and furthermore, all the people who grew up in one house their whole lives.  I was always suspicious that kids who actually were born, raised, and returned to visit with their own kids, all within the very same house somehow had a huge advantage in life.  As though they had a life that was robbed from me…

I’d never get to bring my own children home and say, “This was my room.”

Not that I actually dreamed of getting married, having children and buying the little white house with the picket fence, myself.
When I fell in love and became an instant mother, I developed the urge to put down roots.  But we’ve moved a lot.  As an adult, I see economics are a huge factor.  Not once have my kids lived in a little house with a white picket fence.  They’ve never actually lived in a little house, and the closest they’ve come to a picket fence was when we had the world’s feistiest privet hedge.

The wee ones, they don’t remember that last house.  They only have memories here.  Since we’re about to move, I find that I’m almost hell-bent on setting down roots.  I don’t want to rent, I don’t want to move again, I don’t want them to change schools…maybe EVER.  Maybe they’ll get to bring their children to our house and say, “This was my room.”  I don’t know.  Perhaps moving so much has made me restless?

This is the longest I’ve ever lived in one home.  Here, for almost seven years.  I miss “home” more than I can possibly explain.  Living in a place I don’t belong has worn on my soul.
Prior to living here, I didn’t know that I required green grass, deciduous trees and four seasons.
Am I still independent and adaptable?  Of course.  Military wives who aren’t independent and adaptable usually end up divorced.  And furthermore, they tend to go “home.”

I’ve come to the conclusion that the kind of roots represented by the photo, in the ideal, are enviable.  I’ve also come to the conclusion that moving house is a catalyst for change and growth.  My childhood emphasized wings much more than roots.
“Home” is still a hard concept to grasp.  As a grown person, “home” has become a place where my people are, and where the landscape pleases me.

Had I grown up with two parents in the little blue house with the white picket fence, I don’t even know who I would be.   What a strange, likely boring, person I would have become.  Additionally, I strongly suspect I would have lived with two miserable people who couldn’t have possibly been appeased by their green grass, deciduous trees or change of seasons.  Especially considering they both moved to lands of sand, palm trees, and nearly permanent summer.  On opposite sides of the country, no less!
Apart, they showed me happiness can be made anywhere, in any home.

Are wings more important than roots?
Is where you’ve been as important as where you’re going?
Maybe one day my children will tell me.