‘Tis the season for comfort. Comfort food, comfy sweaters, steaming cups of comfort by cozy fires – you get the picture. We take comfort in reliving traditions and making new ones. But as I seek my traditional comforts this season, I’m met with more than a little change instead.
My parents decided to move out of my childhood home in the country and into town over the Christmas holiday. Having grown up with a family that discussed moving on an annual basis, I can’t lie that I was a bit unprepared for it to actually happen. I’m thrilled for this change in their lives and the positive effect it will have on all them. I completely appreciate the necessity of the decision and what precipitated the long-debated move becoming a finality.
My mom asked me numerous times if I would miss the house (our house, as I will always think of it) and I could only respond that I would miss it mostly for my children, because it’s simply one of those magical places you can only visit to really understand.
But of course, living in a 150 year old farmhouse was less than magical in the day-to-day. I have deep-rooted memories of trying to fall asleep with pounds and pounds of quilts on top of me in the winter. I’m convinced that it took me years after moving out to increase my internal body temperature so that I wasn’t incessantly and unreasonably cold. The legacy of the house was equally chilling at times. Given that the home has belonged to the same family for those entire 150 years, there are reflections of each passing family in the home and it was difficult to ever make our own mark there (however hard I tried and much to the chagrin of my father).
My mother, the suburbanite, the baby boomer, is ready for a more comfortable lifestyle, and in this season, who can really blame her? Being the woman of the house (okay, apartment) myself, I can certainly agree that if mama’s happy, everyone is happy.