The Dating Dad: Home: January, 2010

I knew we’d found the place the second I walked in the door. It was the kitchen that captured my heart—large, open, with a wrap-around bar/counter. I looked at my buddy EJ, who was also my realtor. He nodded his head; he knew it, too.

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When Simone’s mom finally moved out of our big-ass suburban home seven years ago this month, we’d been living there for less than a year. We’d looked and looked for a home we could both be happy in, and that one seemed to be our best bet, with its big yard full of mature trees, multiple bedrooms, and full guest suite and office in the finished basement. I could hop the train downtown to work. Simone had her own room, and there was another for our next baby. My dad and I built a workbench in the garage, and made plans to build custom bookshelves throughout the house.

Simone’s mom left with half of the furniture (the half that we were still making payments on, naturally) and the TV. I moved the living room furniture down to the family room, and put together Simone’s little playhouse in the place where the couches used to be.

Entire rooms went unused for the three years and change that we stuck around. My single life was downtown, where my friends and our favorite bars lived in close proximity. When I was parenting, I was banished to far reaches of south Denver, isolated, living in a place that never felt quite right.

The missing furniture left indentations in the carpeting that never really went away, like benign phantoms from an alternative path, a narrative that would never be.

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While EJ put the key back in the lockbox, I walked past the nice-sized living room with wood flooring, and barely saw the dining area. It was the kitchen, with a multitude of cabinets, with miles and miles of counter space, with a stainless steel fridge, with a full view of the rest of the main gathering areas of the house, that captured my attention.

I could see myself cooking in there while Simone sat at the counter on a barstool, working on her homework or practicing her spelling words; I could see myself creating complex, multi-course meals right there in that kitchen while entertaining friends and family—music playing, or football on TV, someone setting the dining room table, communicating my contentment with each new dish; I could see myself preparing a romantic dinner while that one right girl leaned against the counter, watching me work my magic, offering to help, sipping a Malbec.

Yes, this could be the place, I thought.

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When I finally got out from under the five-bedroom behemoth and Simone and I settled into to our cute little apartment downtown (after a move that left me scarred and weary and put a close friendship on a long hiatus), my quality of life (and, by association, Simone’s well-being) improved exponentially. It wasn’t just because I could stumble my way home after a night of carousing (rather than sleep in my car until just before dawn). It wasn’t just because Simone and I could leave the car parked all weekend and walk everywhere—parks and playgrounds, coffee shops and bookstores, the movie theater. It was so much more. I lived within a walk or short drive of my very best friends; I could walk out my door and be sitting down to dinner or a cocktail within minutes, which left so much more room for spontaneous appreciation of the city’s gifts; I didn’t have to deal with broken tree branches after a late-spring blizzard, or mow the lawn, or even change a lightbulb. When the garbage disposal broke down or sprinkler heads went haywire back at the big house, I was the one running to Home Depot for replacements, then back again for additional hardware. I was the one with busted knuckles and a sore neck after spending four hours under the sink. Now, when something went wrong, I filed a work order.

But as wonderful as our new apartment was, in the three and a half years we lived there I never fully committed to it. Sure, Simone had art on her walls and dinosaurs dangling from her ceiling, but I had exactly one painting up in the rest of the place. I had boxes in storage and tucked away in Simone’s walk-in closet that I never opened. I didn’t buy any new furniture. Simone and I loved our little apartment in the city, but I always knew it was a temporary fix. I signed a one-year lease when we first moved in, and signed six month leases over and over again after that, sure at every renewal that we’d be in our own place by the time the contract was up.

When the time finally was right, EJ and I looked at quite a few places over several months. But I had a very specific list of requirements—I wasn’t leaving the neighborhood; we needed at least two bedrooms and two full bathrooms, covered parking, room to grow, space for all of our crap, plenty of natural light...and a gas stove. I gave a few places serious consideration, even mulled over putting in an offer. But none of them felt quite right; there was always something missing or a little bit off. They were always just a bit less than what I really wanted. EJ would wonder aloud if I was setting my expectations too high. But I knew the right place would present itself if I held out for it.

And, no, the parallels to my love life are not lost on me. Shut up.

So the lease ended on the apartment, and we went month-to-month. Simone liked everything she saw, so I started just bringing her to the real prospects (I know, I know!).

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EJ convinced me to walk out of the kitchen and check out the rest of the house. He pointed out the fireplace, the two bathrooms, the way the home had so much light, even on a cloudy day, the little balcony off the master bedroom. We looked in all of the closets. We checked out the bathrooms. We turned off all the lights, then turned them all back on.

I made an offer that day, and brought Simone (and my Dad, who was in town for a short visit) over to the place for a second opinion. They were both enthusiastic. And though I was nervous about the commitment (shut it!), the gestalt was that it felt right.

I got rid of a lot more stuff before the move—threw away keepsakes that had lost their meaning, gave away or sold furniture that wouldn’t work in the new place, donated books and toys and clothing from a time that felt so distant it was almost like someone else’s life, not mine. Friends helped me pack here and there (as did Simone), but moving day was a solitary (and expensive) affair—me plus three movers in the snow and cold. It was one very long day, but that night I slept in the new home. My home.

I realized the other night, after making dinner for a friend and eating it together at the dining room table, that I hadn’t had a home-home in a long time. I was describing a dream I’d had a couple nights before, where the house was filled with my friends—we were all hanging out, and in my dream-flecked mind, I realized that my home was one of those special places where everyone loved to gather spontaneously, and it made me incredibly happy—and I realized that, though Simone and I are home to each other, I’d always had a figurative bag packed by the door, awaiting the signal to leave for the next place. The big house was never home. The apartment was never permanent. In the same way that I still haven’t found that person who feels just right, I hadn’t been able to let my guard down and spread out into my own place in a very long time.

So I’ve been slowly and carefully moving us into our home-home. Unpacking is part of it, but there’s so much more—I replaced the thermostat; I did some minor repairs; I installed a big-ass TV; I’m thinking about where the art will go; I’m buying furniture.

Of course, the first thing I did was claim the kitchen.

This is our home. Let me know when you’re coming by for a meal. We’ll be ready.