My Old Room

My father still lives in the same house that he and my mother bought together back in 1985 or so. Up until about 4 years ago, it looked exactly the same as my mother had left it, when she and my father divorced. She had decorated it when I was a freshman in high school, and my dad never moved a thing after she left. That's a story for another day.

About 4 years ago, I got a wild hair, and decided to paint the whole first floor of my father's house (minus the kitchen and small 'powder bath' (which, why the hell is it even called a powder bath??)) in one day, with the help of my (then) 16 year old brother. I picked a color, we taped stuff off, and went to town. I think it came out great, other than the spots where my brother got bored, so in turn got sloppy, and painted the ceiling. My dad was a bit speechless when he came home, and I think it took him awhile to get used to it. But it really had to be done. I took stuff off the walls that had 7 inches of dust on it, and donated it. I bought him some newer decorations to replace those. Since then, he's redone the kitchen, changed the dining room into a workout/computer/piano room, and put up a ton of gorgeous pictures he took on his honeymoon (with his second wife, not my mom).

'My Old Room' as I so lovingly refer to it as, is nothing like I left it. Like Swistle, my father changed the use of the room after I moved out as well. Actually, if I remember correctly, before I even moved out, my brother (then just 9) was plotting his take-over of my room, picking out paint colors and drawing various furniture layouts. I left minor things, like a scrapbook I made from 8th grade, and some old Nancy Drew books (LOVED Nancy Drew!!) that my grandmother gave me, and some other stuff that I didn't think I would want. Within a few hours of moving to my own apartment, my brother had moved my stuff to his room, and shoved it in the back of his closet. Within a week or so, the wallpaper border was ripped off, the lovely girly color was gone, and the walls were covered in magazine pictures of basketball stars and R&B singers. The only thing he kept were the glow-in-the-dark stars I had put all over my ceiling, in actual constellations.

I had officially been evicted.

Just 8 years later, my brother left the room. He took the basics, leaving all the posters and pictures, and left the closet in shambles. It wasn't long before the room contained a computer desk and a computer. A couple of years ago, my father's step-sons moved in, and they made that room their 'hangout' spot, adding a TV, a Playstation, more computers, and a ton of other junk. The cat moved in with them, and guess where the litter box is? You guessed it.

When I go in that room now, I don't really get the chance to be nostalgic. I am not propelled back to my teen years. It doesn't smell like me, or look anything like I left it. It doesn't even really feel like mine. And really, that is fine. It is his house, and I am an adult, so what do I need a teenaged-me room for?

Although, it got me thinking, when I get nostalgic for 'home', what really can I call home? My father's house, where I grew up, does not feel like mine, or feel like it did when I grew up. My mother has moved more times than I can count on my hands (and not really her fault), and I view her house as her house, not My Old Home. I guess this is just part of growing up.