Childhood house

Evan has the rare privilege of returning home for the holidays to the very same house he grew up in. Sure, the decor is updated, the basement is redone, and his old bedroom is peppered with antique stuffed bunnies and cute wicker baskets instead of action figures and sport pennants. But! We sat beneath the now majestic trees that he planted as a boy scout, (the whole street is adorned with the handiwork of troop 325) we exhausted scenarios with the Sesame St. clubhouse and Potato Heads, and pawed through mounds of the same Legos the two brothers built ships and bloody battles with in 1984. I delighted in the pictures of my baby husband tucked in corners and the beautiful claw foot bathtub upstairs and eating from his childhood dishes.

Since my own family doesn't even live in the same state in which I was raised, it was extra satisfying to feast my imagination on images of my beloved growing into the man I married within these walls, with these people, and I soaked up the new memories of my own children frolicking with cousins, blissfully unaware of my sappy musings.