Is There a Forever Home?
My husband and I bought our first house together right around the time Pinterest hit the scene — back when people had to invite you. I’d spend my downtime (something I had a lot of in that house between two deployments, one pregnancy and a lot of late-night feedings) scrolling and pinning beautiful homes, décor that spoke to me, and DIY projects — you get it.
I titled this board “The Forever Home,” knowing that these pictures might not be attainable now — or even soon — but one day, after our time with the Marine Corps ended, this board would be a manual for a house search, landscaping and interior decorating. I also assumed we were going to be rolling in dough after military retirement. We have a few more months to figure out how to make that happen — details, details.
Fast Forward to Today
What I find so fascinating (but maybe I shouldn’t) is that, while those pins dating back to 2009 are beautiful, they aren’t necessarily “us” anymore. Of course they aren’t. We aren’t the same 2009 “us” anymore.
While early-20s Kristi was all about square footage, and 30s Kristi only added rooms and upgrades every time the Marine Corps made my eye twitch, 40s Kristi doesn’t really have a picture of a forever home in mind. Instead, I’m in more of a “we’ll-know-it-when-we-see-it” mindset. Maybe that’s the product of real estate bidding wars throughout the years, seemingly “perfect” houses turning out to be anything but, or anticipating the day we would be offered a house.
What is “ideal” now has been influenced by a career of moving around, being influenced by all kinds of styles and cultures, and learning with each house what we liked and what we never wanted to see again.
Home Was Where the Marine Corps Sent Us
I looked at that first house in North Carolina starry-eyed. It was a cookie-cutter starter home with three bedrooms, two baths, a two-car garage and a bonus room over the garage — but it was ours. We brought our son home from the hospital to this house. I made my first military spouse friends here over cookie swaps and deployment dinners. My son and I rode out a Category 1 hurricane here. It will always hold a special place in my heart. My oh my, we’ve outgrown it for sure.
From there, we moved down to Texas and up in square footage. We rented it — all together, now — SIGHT UNSEEN. It was a wonderful neighborhood, with a great backyard and a playset and playroom for our two kids. It needed some TLC (the kind you aren’t volunteering for as a three-year renter). When I tell you it was a hole in the wall, I mean it. Well, holes — plural — in the carpet, anyway, that were strategically covered with area rugs in the listing photos. The kitchen had beige diamond wallpaper, and the brick patio wasn’t graded properly, so when it rained (if you’re from South Texas, you know it only ever comes at once), it came through the back door and into the carpeted living room.
Then we were off to California, where we downsized considerably to a 1940s, maybe 50s, row house. Our kitchen counters sloped down toward the back, much like the patio in the last house. This was my first experience not having air conditioning. The laundry was in the downstairs half-bath, and there was only one tub — it was the shade of yellow that indicates that it didn’t start yellow. Don’t get me wrong, things about that house drove me nuts, but looking back, these were among two of my favorite years. We spent so little time inside and so much time exploring California that the small size never really felt small. Sloping counters aside, this house taught me I didn’t need 4,000 square feet and a sprawling lawn.
While everyone else moving to Japan was frantically downsizing, we gained 200 square feet, which was a fun fact I shared at every opportunity. We went from WWII-era housing to new construction and typhoon-proof walls. The concrete walls didn’t do anything for me, and we had a kitchen pass-through that wasn’t centered over the sink, which drove me nuts daily, but this house was full of friends and memories — good and bad — and we loved it right up until we couldn’t leave it during COVID. At that point, our HHG were already on their way to Virginia, and we were surviving on loaner furniture and hope.
Arriving in northern Virginia was a literal ray of sunshine. After a long negotiation, complicated by time zones, we were the proud owners of a gorgeous sunroom and the 1950s house attached to it. That sunroom sold the house — I loved it. I loved the original pine floors, and it reminded me of my grandparents’ house in many ways. We thought we might even stay long-term. Then I got poison oak three times that first summer cleaning up the yard. We learned we had a mice infestation under my beloved sunroom. A pipe burst during a record low Christmas Day thanks to the poorly insulated walls. This was not the forever house.
Which brings us to today. Still traumatized by the water and rodents, we opted for new construction again. It’s beautiful, it’s big and it even looks like many pins on my Pinterest boards. It’s perfect for now, but we know it isn’t forever.
Now What?
If we know we aren’t staying, you’d think we would know where we’re going, but we don’t. So much must take shape over the next six years. Where will the kids go to college? What doors will post-military employment open? It won’t be a sprawling mansion. It won’t be a tiny house (I don’t care what my husband may have told you). It’ll be something in between, and it’ll be ours for a time.
Those pretty pictures on Pinterest will stay where they are while I get used to the idea that we may never have a forever house — at least not in the way I envisioned. Maybe we’ll spend a few years as empty nesters on the Pacific coast. Maybe we trail the kids (wouldn’t they love it if Mom enrolled for her Ph.D. at their university). Either way, we know we’re here for now, and we know there is more to come. We’re dropping the labels and expectations, learning to keep an open mind, and just in time to leave Marine Corps life, I finally learned to only plan in pencil.
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