The Making (and unmaking) of a Home
The first time I walked into apartment 502K, I sat on the floor and cried.
I had many reasons for those tears, among them the hormones of being eight months pregnant and finishing up two months of living out of a suitcase. But 502K provided plenty more.
Dorms are a special college experience, but not quite so glamorous for a young family, and 502K screamed dorm living from every inch of its 660-ish square feet.
For months I tried to beat the institutional construction into a more homelike existence, and it seemed I met frustration at every turn. I'd measure shelving then go out to purchase organizers only to have to return them when I discovered that the size of the shelf was not uniform across it's length and so didn't fit... or maybe it would have fit, if there hadn't been a totally awkward door frame around the closet or if the bathroom door didn't make it impossible to have a bath rug in the bathroom or if the cupboards had been large enough to keep dinner plates in.
No way could I win every battle (an oven that ignores its own temperature setting, but heats the back burner on the stove enough to steam veggies whatever the temperature, can't be helped) but I could decorate. (I mean, I could decorate provided that I used only the approved wall hangers.)
Slowly, it seemed I had come to terms with most of the things I could not change. And then we were gone for three months after living there only nine, and on our return there was a weird sense of having misplaced something important.
I'd forgotten so many things during those three months away, like where did my butter dish go? And how do I get out of bed when there is only 9 inches of space between the wall and the footboard that reaches out to gouge my leg each time I pass by?
Sure, there was a comfort in the familiarity of being back among our own things. The children pulled out every long-loved toy. SmilesBabyGirl greeted every shoe on the shoe rack like an old friend.
But, we had to make it home all over again, because when we left in May, we had a baby barely mobile. When we came back, we had a toddler.
A tall toddler.
And all over again, we were scrambling to find places for our toothbrushes, our knives, our phones while they charged, the breakable contents of our short fridge.
A never ending battle, it seemed, to make these four walls a home.
And then it did end.
We didn't renew our lease, and the constant battle to make 502K home became a countdown to that moment when all proof of our existence would be erased. (Erased, that is, with the help of a box and a half of Mr. Clean Magic Eraser.)
And when we closed the door, and turned the key for the last time, there was nothing but a sense of relief. We were done with a place that never fit. We were free from the tiring battle.
I think of that little dorm-style apartment in the midst of voices of frustration venting about what is wrong with this world. Oh, we can try to make this messy world a home, and we should, but we are never going to fit.
Though the battle to make this world a better home seems never ending, that's not the case. Gentle readers, we are merely in student housing, and one day soon is graduation.
I had many reasons for those tears, among them the hormones of being eight months pregnant and finishing up two months of living out of a suitcase. But 502K provided plenty more.
For months I tried to beat the institutional construction into a more homelike existence, and it seemed I met frustration at every turn. I'd measure shelving then go out to purchase organizers only to have to return them when I discovered that the size of the shelf was not uniform across it's length and so didn't fit... or maybe it would have fit, if there hadn't been a totally awkward door frame around the closet or if the bathroom door didn't make it impossible to have a bath rug in the bathroom or if the cupboards had been large enough to keep dinner plates in.
No way could I win every battle (an oven that ignores its own temperature setting, but heats the back burner on the stove enough to steam veggies whatever the temperature, can't be helped) but I could decorate. (I mean, I could decorate provided that I used only the approved wall hangers.)
Slowly, it seemed I had come to terms with most of the things I could not change. And then we were gone for three months after living there only nine, and on our return there was a weird sense of having misplaced something important.
I'd forgotten so many things during those three months away, like where did my butter dish go? And how do I get out of bed when there is only 9 inches of space between the wall and the footboard that reaches out to gouge my leg each time I pass by?
Sure, there was a comfort in the familiarity of being back among our own things. The children pulled out every long-loved toy. SmilesBabyGirl greeted every shoe on the shoe rack like an old friend.
But, we had to make it home all over again, because when we left in May, we had a baby barely mobile. When we came back, we had a toddler.
And all over again, we were scrambling to find places for our toothbrushes, our knives, our phones while they charged, the breakable contents of our short fridge.
A never ending battle, it seemed, to make these four walls a home.
And then it did end.
We didn't renew our lease, and the constant battle to make 502K home became a countdown to that moment when all proof of our existence would be erased. (Erased, that is, with the help of a box and a half of Mr. Clean Magic Eraser.)
And when we closed the door, and turned the key for the last time, there was nothing but a sense of relief. We were done with a place that never fit. We were free from the tiring battle.
I think of that little dorm-style apartment in the midst of voices of frustration venting about what is wrong with this world. Oh, we can try to make this messy world a home, and we should, but we are never going to fit.
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