My Childhood Home

When I was 10, we moved into the house I consider to be my childhood home. Before that, my parents, three brothers, the cat and the dog had lived in a small rental on a busy street. It had two bedrooms and one bathroom, so when we moved into the new (bigger!) house and got to pick out own rooms, it was thrilling.

With all the confidence that the eldest child and only girl ought to have, I proclaimed the large bedroom in the basement “mine”. The rest of my family selected bedrooms on the top floor, far from my little kingdom. It didn’t take much time for me to adorn the walls with pictures of Heath Ledger and Michael Phelps (weird, I know, but I swam at that time, so he was a bit of an obsession).

The house changed a great deal over the course of my family’s 22 years there. Shortly after moving in, my parents ripped up the shag carpet in the bathrooms, painted the walls, and embarked on various DIY projects. Over the years, the rectangular plot of grass in the backyard was transformed into a beautiful garden. A shed was erected, and my dad built a cedar fence. When I was in high school, the entire house was gutted and completely renovated. During the process, my parents and brothers lived in the garage which had been converted to a small cottage, and my cousin, who lived with us at the time, and I lived in a canvas wall tent. My mum cooked on a hotplate or the BBQ (I remember she once made pancakes on the BBQ) and we watched a whole lot of Seinfeld episodes. When I think of that time now, it feels equally cozy and hilarious, but I’m quite certain it didn’t feel like that then.

Me and my brother, Hamish, in the backyard of the tiny home we lived in before moving to what I consider to be our childhood home.

It was in that house that I introduced my parents to my first boyfriend and later, the man who would become my husband. It was in that house that I laughed and cried with friends over both minor and major life events. It was in that house that I told my parents I needed to take time off from university. And, it was in that house that I found out C and I would be moving to the Yukon.

I imagined that home would forever be my family’s, but several years ago, before I’d moved to the Yukon, my parents floated the idea of selling. They were ‘empty nesters’; the community didn’t feel the same; they were ready to leave. I was aghast! How could they! This was our home! But by the time they did decide to list, I’d been in the Yukon for nearly three years. I felt unattached.

I barely recognize the house when I go back to Vancouver now. Truthfully, I thought I’d feel a deep sense of sadness driving through my old neighbourhood. I wondered if I’d even be able to stomach seeing the old house. But it doesn’t bother me much.

What would be the last meal I ever ate in my childhood home (I didn’t know it then!).

The process of moving to the Yukon and of watching new people making my childhood home theirs has taught me about the constructs of home.

I’ll be in Vancouver a week from today. I’ll drive by the old house. I’ll reflect on the ways the city has changed. My relationship with Vancouver has changed just as the city itself has too. I don’t recognize the new construction and the demolition of buildings I knew, the new shops and the shuttered ones. I don’t even recognize the home I grew up in.

C moved to the Yukon one month before I did. That month I moved out of our apartment and I lived in my childhood home with my parents. This was a sunrise I could see from bedroom I slept in.

C’s first Christmas with my family.

I used to think that the concept of home was tied to a physical structure, but I now know it’s much more than that. Home is our rental in Beaver Creek because it’s a space in which C, Chilli, and I have grown, made memories, and established roots. It may not have the fixtures, countertop, floors, or wall colour I’d choose, but it’s home just the same. Home is the new house my parents bought on Vancouver Island. I don’t know it well. It’s by the ocean and its old fixtures feel foreign, but it’s home because it’s where my nephew learned to crawl, it’s where my mum and dad’s laughter can be heard, and it’s where my brothers, sisters-in-law, niece, and nephew go for family dinners. Home is where I am with the people I love.

My parents’ new home on Vancouver Island. I don’t know it well, yet, but it still feels like home.