My first house was a yellow brick house with blue window shutters, a pink door, and a green roof. The rent was great because it was free, meals were included, and it was right in the backyard of my family’s house.
I used to host parties in it when my cousins came over, I used to cook dinner and invite guests, I used to dance and sing in it, I used to camp out in it with my cousins, and I used to keep it nice and clean.
My dad would help me wash the outside. You don’t usually wash houses off or wipe them down on the outside to clean them, but this one was plastic and was a material that could easily be cleaned.
It was a dream home for a little girl. Beautiful, cheap, great location, and other benefits to owning the home.
But, by the time I was ten I sold it. I grew out of it mentally and physically.
Mentally because I was no longer a little child who played with dollhouses, and physically because I started to have to bend down to get in and couldn’t stand up straight inside of it anymore.
Because I grew out of it, I sold it to other tenants of the backyard of our house, our dogs. It became their little house.
I forgot about that house over the years. It became dusty and abandoned. I began to think about real houses, erasing my first time as a homeowner from my memory.
By the time I was sixteen, I was looking at colleges and was already looking at apartments. I was so eager to get my first place of my own, to finally be an adult. I stayed on apartment websites looking at places even though I had a long time before I’d be moving out of my family’s house.
Then, I graduated high school. My plans changed. I ended up not just moving into an apartment in Arizona, I moved twelve hours away from home to San Francisco.
As a freshman in college, I lived in the dorms. I was paying for the dorm and the meal plan, but I didn’t really feel like I was paying because I have a full ride (Gates Scholarship), so the money is not coming from my pocket.
If anyone has been to San Francisco, you know the rent market is inflated and catastrophic. So, by the time the end of freshman year came I was like I want to be in the cushioned dorms again please!
My school has limited on-campus housing for continuing students so a bunch of us, including myself, did not get dorms for sophomore year and were unpreparedly thrown into the disastrous rent market of San Francisco.
It took me a little over a month, but I had finally found something. A studio near the beach with lovely landlords.
I love having a place of my own like I used to want all along. But, I am not fond of paying $1,200 for rent, cooking all the time, cleaning, grocery shopping, and having to make adult decisions.
Enduring living on my own and being an adult has made me realize I miss my dollhouse days.
I wish I could live in my first home, with the pink door and blue shutters, again where the rent is free, where meals are included in my rent, and a chauffeur was included in my rent. But, as the years passed and I grew too big for it mentally and physically, it began to deteriorate from abandonment and it is probably in a junkyard somewhere now.
Live in your dollhouse days, don’t skip them. Absorb those days and pause those days, for when you want them the most they will be gone.
So, never take your dollhouse for granted.
And, never forget your first home…