the house that built me.

A small few of you already know, but this summer my parents and my little brother will be moving to England. Yep, England. My dad was transferred there with his work. I have know since January and I can tell you it was quite the roller coaster of emotions. It was a personal time for me and my parents and siblings. I won't go into it. But I will say that I am confident that this move is the right decision for my parents at this time. As crazy as it seems, it's where they are supposed to be for the next few years.

One of the hardest things, I knew, would be saying goodbye to my house and my hometown. I knew I would still be seeing my family often, but the house that I grew up in would no longer be my home. The town I loved so much wouldn't be mine either. That has caused a lot more heartache than I can really explain. I have always had terrible separation anxiety and inanimate objects are no exception.

My loving mother offered to fly me home to say goodbye to the house. Luckily, I had a 3 day weekend and jumped on the chance. I flew home without my husband. None of my sisters came either. It kinda felt right in that sense though. We each get our own time to be alone with my parents in the house we were raised in.

So many things happened in that house. That sounds like such a dumb sentence. Of course so many things happened. Things happen in every house. But more importantly, so many things happened in me in that house.

I remember seeing the house for the first time. It was big and brown and kind of ugly (seriously guys, our house was super ugly before we remodeled the entire thing) but I was so excited to be moving to Southern California (alllllllll the way from central California) that it didn't matter. I was young and don't remember too much about that first year, besides the break in. My older sister and I walked in on our house being robbed. I was terrified for years. There were a lot of sleepless nights. Maybe I am still a little bit scared of the garage, which is where they broke in.

My little brother joined our family in that house. I am glad I was old enough to remember that day and that time period so vividly. Waking up to the note on the kitchen table that my parents were at the hospital. Holding him for the first time. Watching him get bigger. We weren't complete until he came. Plus that year, we completely re-did the house and added two bedrooms which meant I had my own room for the first time in my life. So thanks for making our family too big for a 3-bedroom, Cameron!

I will always remember my bright orange bedroom. Why my parents let me paint it that color, I have no idea. But I kept it that way until my parents converted it into my brother's room just a few years ago. My walls were also covered in my Johnny Depp shrine. If you don't know very much about me, you probably don't know that I have worshiped Johnny Depp since I was a little girl and had every inch of my door and closets covered in pictures of him. Hundreds and hundreds of pictures. I loved that bright orange, Johnny Depp covered, squeaky-bedded room. It was my sanctuary through the years.

I had some of the funnest nights of my entire life in that house. TPing. The pen throwing game. The infamous Underwear Party of 2003. Poop flinger. The Zoolander reenactment. Sleepovers.. more sleepovers than I can count. Surprise birthday parties. Broken trampolines. Barbies on the deck. School videos. Choreographed dances. Movie nights. Dance parties. "Hey Jessica, have you seen my shirt?" The "I Want You Back" dance and the sleepover that almost got Jenna banned from my house for eternity. Being pepper sprayed by random boys. Hand-ball. Mutual activities. Firesides. Reunions. Endless sister nights of watching Friends while dad laughed from the stairs and pretended it wasn't funny. Sneaking over my boyfriends when my parents weren't home. (Yes mom, I am admitting it. I will also admit that we were always good kids). Back yard BBQs. Reading Christmas stories in British accents. The FHE where we tied Cameron to a chair and threw balled-up socks at him. Cakeballs. Watching The Soup every Friday night. American Idol parties. All the kids coming home for Holidays when we grew up. Long summer nights watching movies after all-day trips to the beach. Sitting in the backyard watching the sun go down. The list goes on and on.

I got my heart broken a few times in that house. The first when I was the tender age of 11. I remember crying in the bathroom and being too embarrassed to tell my mom but when I walked into the kitchen later, she immediately knew. I cried many nights over dumb fights with my high school boyfriend in that house. I came back to that house the summer after my first year of college and worked my butt off trying to get over him. Two summers ago in the very bed I slept in in high school, I cried my confused heart out as it was torn over my missionary far away, and the new boy trying to work his way in.

I brought Nathan home to that house to meet my family when we were just 19 and several times after. We have so many fond memories of summers and holidays relaxing around that house. We drove straight there after our wedding reception to pack up my stuff for the honeymoon. We ran around the house yelling and celebrating. That house holds so much love in its walls.

Going home to that house always brought relief and peace. It's been a safe haven for me all these years. I love my family more than I could ever express in words. I would rather be with them than with anyone else. We went through hard times together in that house. But the good outweighs the bad by a million. Nothing has ever made me happier than being together with my entire family, just watching America's Funniest Home Videos.

I grew up in that house. I learned who I was. Who I wanted to be and who I did not want to be. I fell in love, got my heart broken, and healed it again. I laughed and cried and watched a lot of episodes of Friends. I love the time I spent in that house. I love the people I spent that time with even more. I am so blessed to have had such a happy home to grow up in. I guess I am not sad about leaving the house. All it is is walls and floors and ceilings. I am sad to leave behind the memories and the love from that house and who I was when I lived there. I am looking forward to a bright future as I build my own home. But I won't even forget the house that built me. Maybe it's more of the loss of my childhood than the loss of the house that's affecting me. It's like I am just now realizing that I am not a little girl anymore and that it's time to grow up. It's a hard reality to swallow, but I am glad I will have the love of those years in that house to help me onto the next stage in my life. I hope I can build a home like that for my little girl to grow up in.