Thirty years and counting – Christmas in the New House

We are gearing up to celebrate our thirtieth Christmas in this house – the house we still refer to as the new one. Thirty Christmas trees, mornings and turkeys – the house is so far from new it’s laughable.

We moved into this house in 1987 – other than the fact it was November, I remember little of the move. That’s a long time ago, but I can remember not remembering like it was yesterday.

I had been packing boxes for weeks, all unnecessary items were stowed and labeled in a cardboard pyramid in the corner of the kid’s room. We were leaving our first family home, a nine hundred square foot / two bedroom bungalow, and heading toward our future. The kids were little; four, six and eight years old; they had been sharing a bedroom their whole lives. Although the promise of more space and a flight of stairs was appealing, they were a little trepidatious about the move.

Our new house, a split level with three bedrooms and a family room, was only a few miles from home but it felt, to the kids, like they were moving to the Moon. They thought everything familiar, every friend, was being left behind. On top of all this emotion was the fact one of those little kids was seriously sick.

Our youngest child and I had been visiting a variety of doctors between all the packing, the naps and hurried meals. It was a very stressful time.

Our new house was under construction when we purchased it, we were required to choose the finishing details. I flipped through tile samples and carpet swatches while my little girl dozed on my lap and the other two kids were at school. I selected light fixtures and chose bricks for the fireplace with such speed I impressed sales clerks everywhere.

As moving day grew closer and the mountain of boxes grew taller, our doctors’ appointments became more intense. We were driving to and from Vancouver to visit specialists who were drawing blood from the tiny arms of my limp little girl. Most of our days were spent in the car or waiting for results.

I have been blessed with a close family and an extremely supportive group of friends – I don’t know what we would have done without them that year. My daughter and I checked into Children’s Hospital the day before my husband’s buddies showed up with their pickup trucks and muscles, and my sisters and girlfriends arrived with meals, coffee and a plan of attack. My parents came to the hospital to sit, wide eyed and breathless, with their granddaughter so I could buzz home for a quick check-in with the moving crew and the other two kids. Everyone was sharing the load. Everyone was putting their brave faces on.

I remember not giving a damn about how the new kitchen was getting set up – I couldn’t have cared less if I ever discovered which drawer the potato peeler was in. People were tripping over each other and boxes, and working hard to make things easy. I appreciated everyone, but I don’t remember saying thank you.

I only emerged from the fog I’d been swimming in when we were discharged from the hospital a week later; when our worries were replaced with gratitude. Gratitude for the really important things in our life – our family and our friends and health.  I had so much to be thankful for.

We celebrated our first Christmas in the new house in 1987 – I have pictures to prove it. It came and went in a blur. I can’t remember what Santa brought the kids, but I know he shimmied down our new chimney. I know there was much laughter and wrapping paper. And I know that my heart was full – I had already received the greatest gift. We still weren’t settled – we hadn’t hung the pictures on the walls or purchased blinds for the kids rooms, but their beds had been made and sugar plums had danced in their heads, and Christmas had come.

For the blur Christmas 1987 is, it remains my best Christmas. It brought gifts that are impossible to buy; healthy, happy children and an appreciation of family and friends; people who show up and hold you up. The details of that Christmas may be jumbled in my memory but the gratitude of that year shines like a spot light. It still lights my path.

Our new house is nice, and I eventually found the potato peeler, but I’ve never bonded with it like I imagine other home owners have bonded with theirs. It’s always stayed the new house, even as the sidewalks have settled and the  plaster has cracked. The kids grew up in this house, grew up and moved out – but everyone still has a key to the front door.

This is a happy house, one that’s seen a lot of Christmas trees and a lot of turkeys. I actually think the house likes not taking center stage – it’s more of a support character in the story of our lives. A place where we’ve gathered together, loved one another and celebrated a lot of Christmases. Thirty years and counting.