Alaskan prepares for next chapter in her life

This hallway is where I paced back and forth through several sleepless nights with a whimpering new infant nestled in my arms, marveling at her 10 tiny toes, perfect snub nose and long eyelashes curling against her soft cheeks.

That bedroom is where I curled up many nights with a toddler and then preschooler, reading “Good Night, Moon” so many times that he could read it with me by the time he was 3. It’s the same room where the now 4-year-old little man sits in bed with his little sister nightly, reading her stories from books that he makes up as he goes along. Apparently, a dragon and a lion and a butterfly are engaged in a fight with several Transformers in a castle in Fairy Land, and as of last night, the butterfly was winning.

This dining room table is where my son graduated from high chair to booster seat to adult chair. Instead of bowing his head with us when we pray before dinner, he leads the grace each night, shouting “AMEN” at the top of lungs when he’s finished, waving both arms in the air in delight.

Based on this, my husband is convinced our son will grow up to be a televangelist. A very loud televangelist.

And the first room at the top of the stairs at the right belongs to my stepdaughter. When we moved in here three years ago, she decorated the room in varying shades of Pepto-Bismol pink, with flowing princess decorations and puppy and kitten posters littering the walls.

Gradually over the years, the puppy and kitten posters have been replaced with pop stars, and the princess decorations and teddy bears have been moved to her little sister’s room to make space for a laptop, a Wii system and several large bean bag chairs. There are still small snatches of the little girl she was in the room, but the young woman she is becoming is gradually taking over. It makes my husband and I wistful, and yet grateful, that we are blessed with the opportunity to watch these changes.

And this house, in this neighborhood, in this city, is where I received the warmth, support, love and prayers of friends and complete strangers alike when my husband was in Iraq for 14 months last year. It’s where someone anonymously plowed my driveway several times while I was out; where anonymous gifts of love and support would be given to me; and where I learned, along with my children, that it’s okay to ask for and accept help from people willing to give it.

This is where I have volunteered for several years, working with my beloved church in teaching high school Sunday school, directing several religious theatrical productions and going on a mission trip to a remote village last summer. This is where I grew to adore Valley Performing Arts and the gifts community theater brings to the Valley, and leapt at the chance to direct my first production with VPA. This area is where I served on several boards, working with the local MOMS Club in Palmer and the Fort Richardson Spouses’ Club on post.

And just last week, the plans to leave all this were finalized.

My husband, who retired from the Army a month ago, accepted a job offer in Illinois after he and I discussed it for quite some time. We’ve never been there before, but the job seemed tailor-made for him and the area appears quite nice. The only problem with the entire scenario is the fact that the company he will be working for needs him to start immediately. We have two weeks to pack up a lifetime of memories, say goodbye to the friends we will cherish our entire lives, sell our house, and leave the state we thought we would call home forever.

Needless to say, there have been quite a few tears shed in our house lately. I know, realistically, this is a wonderful opportunity in a great area and we will make the most of it.

Emotionally, I am a basket case.

Being a military spouse means I have moved before; many times before, to be exact. Yet, Alaska was always home and all military paperwork lists this state as our permanent home of record. So, no matter where we moved, I always knew Alaska was home.

Now, with this final move, Alaska will no longer be considered my permanent residence. Since we are officially civilians now, we cannot have a “Home of Record” anymore, just our current address in whatever state we are in.

I know we will make a home out of where we are sent, and that we will have good times and laughter and love in our house, wherever it is. But the goodbyes this time are particularly hard.

We know we will be coming back up here: My grandmother lives here, my grandfather’s tombstone rests in the Fort Richardson cemetery and my parents live here when they are not out gallivanting around the country in their motor home. So, we will come back.

It won’t be quite the same.

The movers come tomorrow to pack the house, with the exception of a few suitcases, and we fly out a week later. We had a mammoth moving sale all Memorial Day weekend and got rid of a ton of stuff. We are physically ready to begin the next chapter of our lives.

But my heart will always live here.

In the bedroom where my daughter slept her first night when she was brought home from the hospital; along the staircase where my son learned that he cannot jump off seven stairs at once and not get a bruise; and in the bathroom on the second floor where my stepdaughter, who used to just keep a brush in a drawer for her hair, now has more bottles and sprayers and hair dryers and curling irons than I do.

So, if you know of anyone who is interested in a 3-year-old, 2,500 square-foot, four-bedroom home that comes complete with a lifetime of memories crammed into 36 months, please call me.

Tiffany Horvath is the mother of two and the stepmother of one. She wrote every Sunday about life at home as a military wife and mother.