Through Rose Colored Glasses

In my family, we talk about the past by mentioning the address of the house we were living in, "Remember at 633, when Dad dressed up as Santa Claus and brought the presents downstairs and put them under the tree?" "Remember when we were at 1212, and Mom decided to take a hammer to the ugly tile in the foyer and there was actually hardwood underneath it?" Those houses represent a part of our family's history, and they mean so much to us. Most of us have a house that we lived in that we think of as our childhood home, and when we are buying the home that we will raise our own children in, the significance of it can weigh heavy on us.

My family and I moved back to my hometown when our girls were three and four. We had moved away shortly after I became pregnant, and the girls were brought home to a 1970s two story stucco, with the typical "garage in the front" California curb appeal. I yearned for a home like the one I grew up in, with beautiful woodwork and stained glass windows, wonderful creaky floors and a big bay window for my Christmas tree.

What I wanted and what we could actually afford were two slightly different things, to everyone but me. What people saw, including my father in law, who later told us his first thought upon seeing our home ("What did these kids buy??") was an old house with mustard yellow siding and a cramped kitchen, with mushroom themed, uneven tiles on the countertop. There was no bathroom on the first floor, and what passed for a half bath in the basement was promptly nicknamed "the spider bathroom" by our kids, and used only in dire emergencies. All of the beautiful woodwork had been whitewashed, and the third bedroom was really a joke, so tiny, with an exterior door leading to nowhere.

But I loved it. And I knew that it had the makings of my dream house. Through my rose colored glasses, that house had everything I ever wanted. It had beauty in its bones, and houses, if they were once beautiful, can always be made beautiful again. We moved in with our daughters, and spent the next fifteen years slowly improving that house. We put a three story addition on the back, redid the horrible siding, added a Master suite, doubled the size of the kitchen, and, thank goodness, found a spot to add a half bath on the main floor.

Just as we look at our kids and see everything that they can be and everything that is beautiful about them, so we should look with kindness and understanding at these beautiful old homes. And know that when we are searching for that all important home, our children's childhood home, what is most important to them will be the memories made there. First steps taken on squeaky floors, Easter egg hunts in the tiny back yard, and first day of school pictures taken on the wooden front steps that always seemed to need a paint job. There are things that are easy to change and some that are not so easy. But one thing that I know: all kids love the house they grew up in. No matter what color it is.