It was the last night at my house.  I meandered through each room, empty and void of material things, but filled with memories of my life.  Filled with the perseverance it took to get there and filled with the hopes that I once had to be doing things on my own.  I no longer had to do that.  I no longer had to look at life as just me and my kids.  There was now going to be six of us and the future although scary looked bright.  My girlfriends came over that night for one last glass of wine on my porch.  We sat on the floor ad discussed the what if’s and went over all the good things that were yet to come.  I was having a hard time wrapping my head around this move.  It should be a time of wonder, of excitement and for me it was somewhat sad.  I was leaving, giving up on something I had worked so hard for.  No more time for tears; like they say in the Broadway show Wicked “No more second guessing, it’s time to trust my instincts, close my eyes and leap”  and that is what I did.  The next morning Jolly guy arrived at my house bright and early and we moved all my things into the trailer.  My life had been reduced to filling one large trailer that would sit in the front yard of jolly guys house until the addition was completed.  My furniture had been sold, my things had been either been thrown away or given away, out with the old and in with the new.  Jolly guy and I would get new things together, we’d furnish his house with things that meant something to both of us.  I filled the trailer with clothes, our beds and lots of holiday decorations. The house was completely emptied, I did a once over for anything that would have been left behind and did a thorough cleaning.  He got in the trailer and I go in my car and that was the end of that.  As we arrived at his house I could feel my spirits lift as I saw all four kids on the front porch awaiting our arrival.  This was it.  This was the moment we crossed over the threshold and our life began.  The life I had wanted, the life I had longed for, the life that most people dream of.  A beautiful house, one that I could make a home, filled with kids of all ages and the man I loved.  There were four girls altogether.  Ranging in ages from 12 – 17.  Four teenage girls all under one roof.  That alone should have made me shutter, but it didn’t.  I could handle them right?  I was a grown woman, raised children for fifteen years on my own, had a successful full-time job that took me all over the world, making decisions that costs millions and now here I was; holly homemaker.  I could totally do this.  We began to unpack some of the trailer for what the girls and I would need in the immediate future; clothes, stuff, shoes, etc.  We put two girls in each room and jolly guy and I would stay in his room together.  It felt strange.  This was not my house.  This had nothing to do with me and the next day I needed to put my touch on things.  I filled the space with nick knacks that represented me and put some girlie stuff here and there.  I am prone to older, antique type things with warm colors and a homey feel.  Jolly guy was more stark with cold colors and minimalistic appeal.  I would spend the day incorporating our styles into one space and over the next week or so things began to feel more like home.  There was a tiny voice somewhere in the back of my head that reminded me on a daily basis, “This is not your house”  and it wasn’t.  My name wasn’t on anything, not the home, not a lease, not a bill that reflected anything that showed this is where I reside.  So I headed to the DMV and changed my address on my license.  I had all my mail transferred with the new address and this gave me a vague feeling of contentment. On paper this was now my home.  But inside that house, I would have to try much harder to gain my space and have it really mean what I thought home meant.  Saying it and meaning this would be my home, my house, would be an endless battle from that day forward.