To Answer Your Question: Part 2
“Why Do I Have Two Houses?”
I think most parents are familiar with the witching hour. It’s that weird time in the evening when a kid really crafts his knack for whining. For you, this falls between 5–6 PM, if it’s going to happen at all. You are especially heinous when you’re extra tired because you played hard during the day with your little friends. Your stubborn spirit is too old for naps, but your growing body has probably never needed them more.
So, that’s where we were at in our evening when you decided to throw a huge fit in your room. This was fall of 2019, and you were four. We were actually living with my parents that year so I could save up to buy a house of our own. We did one year in an apartment very close to your dad, and then I realized I could never get ahead if I kept paying rent instead of a mortgage.
We moved in with my parents after the lease was up, and your Nan and Papaw took great lengths to make their house our home. They gave us full reign over the top floor of their beautiful house. You had your room, I had my own room, and the bonus room held all my living room furniture and your toys. They even hired friends to build you a treehouse in the backyard and they always encouraged us to have people over.
On this particular night, you were worn out. You had played so hard at daycare the day before, and then you had a big Saturday hanging out with your dad. By the time I got you, you were exhausted and every whine that escaped your mouth exposed your true tyrant self. I had asked you multiple times to stop jumping around on my bed and, finally, you did exactly what I knew you were going to do and you kicked the glass of water sitting on my nightstand. The water destroyed my planner for work and I yelled for you to go to your room. You ran in your room and I tried to salvage what was left of this planner. For you, it was just paper. For me, it was a collection of schedules, notes, and reminders that I needed to keep my life together.
After I calmed down, I walked into your room to find you putting something in the little trash can by your desk. It was an old picture of your dad from when he first joined the army. I used to carry it in my wallet when we were married, and then I gave it to you to keep on your desk. You’ve got a solid collection of pictures with him in your room on display, and I thought you’d like to have this one, too. I asked what you were doing, but you wouldn’t respond. So, I reached into the trash and pulled out this crumbled photo and I asked why you did that to his picture. You looked down and said you thought it would make me happy since I was angry with you because of the spill.
In that moment, I couldn’t believe your brain was already working like this. I put a lot of energy into making sure no one speaks poorly about your dad in front of you, including myself. That small action showed me that no matter how hard I try to control a situation, nothing can keep you from reading my body language, my moods, and my emotions. You’re a perceptive kid, and I was the same way, so I don’t know why I would expect anything different from you. This hypersensitivity is going to be an alternating blessing and curse throughout your life. Sometimes you will benefit from it and other times everyone else but you will benefit from it.
Instead of yelling at you, I just grabbed you and held you for a minute. This emotion was too big for your little body. Emotions are hard, and it sometimes takes us a few minutes to let them run their course on us physically. I remember I was standing while I held you and you started crying into my neck, so I bent down with you in my arms and just sat on the floor while you cried it out.
Then, you leaned up from my neck and asked, “Why do I have two houses?”
The first thing that came out of my mouth was, “I’m so sorry,” and I kept repeating it as you finished crying and I searched for better words to say. I told you that everyone has different homes. I asked you which of your friends at daycare had just one house, and you named off a few kids. Then, I asked you which of your friends had a “mommy-house” and a “daddy-house” and you named off just as many kids. I said, “See. You aren’t the only one. There are a lot of different homes. I’m sorry it’s not easier right now, but a lot of people love you and that never changes.” You stopped crying, did a little shrug, and said, “Can we watch Paw Patrol?” That was the end of that conversation.
I was grateful for your tiny attention span in that moment. That talk lasted a few minutes for you, but I wrestled with it for a few days. Even now, recalling it makes me run my hands over my face. I never know if I’m saying the right thing to you, but I can promise you that I’m always being honest with you in an age-appropriate way.
Had you been older, I would have explained to you that you had two different homes because our one home together was no longer warm or comfortable for anyone. I went a year with little sleep and even less of an appetite. I didn’t breathe easily in that house. I’ll never speak for your dad, but I would imagine he’d agree that coming home to the dynamic we had created wasn’t what he had in mind after a long day at work. You were too young to pick up on the tension in the house, but we both knew it wouldn’t be long before you would see it or, worse, feel it.
So, I made a deliberate call to get an apartment that was minutes away from your dad’s house. I didn’t want it to be any more complicated than I knew it would have to be. But, I’d be lying if I told you my physical well-being didn’t improve once I got the apartment. With my own space, I breathed easier, I slept deeper, and I took time to enjoy all the meals I had forgotten about. I bought myself fresh flowers and decorated our place with the help of several loving friends and relatives.
That apartment is where we started our nightly cookie ritual. It’s where you developed a devotion for Fireman Sam. It’s where we built our first forts.
It wasn’t much, but it was ours. It was the first tangible thing I got as I learned to rebuild my identity as a person and not just as someone’s wife, mother, or teacher. I know it’s hard to view me as anything other than your mom, but try to consider me as just Nora. It will mess with your mind to think of who I was before you came along, but it’s good for you to consider. As much as I want to be the one who hangs the moon for you, you will realize soon that I’m just a person with excessive plans, lots of fears, and a desire to know I’ve lived every bit of my life.
When you asked me that hard question, I felt so much immediate guilt. I couldn’t explain to you that I was only trying to do what’s best and that a big portion of that depends on me giving you the best version of myself.
Today, we are living in the house I bought for us months ago. As I write this, you are laying beside me on the couch in skeleton pajamas. Your hair is wet from your shower, and you have chocolate on your mouth from the nightly cookies I made you. You keep kicking me and asking when I’m going to be done writing. Who knows how long this house will be our home, but I’m learning to appreciate every day in it with you. We could have continued all staying in the same one house, but you wouldn’t have gotten this version of me, which means I’m not so sure that I would’ve gotten this version of you.
And, this version of you makes me weep when I thank God for you.
