My mom says she lived in a Navy-base hotel room for six weeks with me -- when I was 3-years-old --  and my two older brothers when my dad was transferred from San Diego to Virginia Beach, Va. I'm not entirely sure, given the week I've just had, that this is possible.

We finally sold our house in Pensacola, Fla., last Monday, but not before the sale almost fell through (on Wednesday) and the movers were canceled mid-job, and shortly after the movers returned (on Saturday) with a truck that was too small. It seemed only fitting then that when we showed up for the closing on Monday morning, Owen, 5, peed in his pants and had a temper tantrum on the floor. Frankly, I wanted to join him. On the floor, that is.

Promptly after turning over the keys to our home in Florida, our Realtor in Maine called to tell us that the contract on the house we were buying there had fallen through. I drove in silence (well, except for Owen screaming about his wet pants and Ford, 7, listening to Alvin and the Chipmunks in French) to my new home -- the Navy Lodge.

"Is this where we're going to live now," Ford asked. The four of us--me, Ford, Owen and the baby, Lindell, because Dustin, of course, was at work--stared into the dimly lit room with two queen beds and a kitchenette.

"It looks like a hotel," Owen said.

Oh, but the Navy Lodge is so much more than a hotel, really. It's like a dorm for military families like us who are in the middle of moving from one location to another. Indeed, by the time we had settled in that night (and by "settled in," I mean that we had stuffed all of our belongings that the movers would not or could not take on their truck into the four dresser drawers below the television), we ventured out to the wooded trails behind the Lodge and found other displaced families who looked just as bewildered and tired as we did. Some of the mothers seemed cheerful. I guessed that they had either found the base liquor store or had grown to accept their current situation. Other mothers had an obvious inner happiness that they tried to hide with feigned looks of sympathy when they smiled and said hello to me. These mothers, I knew, were about to be released, if you will.

They were on the last leg of their moving adventure. When I looked back at the Lodge, I shuddered to see balconies with wet clothes hung out to dry on them. It was as if people were actually making themselves at home. But not me. This will never be "home," I thought.

At the playground, my boys found a friend. I knew the child had been at the Lodge for longer than a night or two because he was playing unsupervised, like a child would play in their own backyard. In fact, the boy's laundry was probably hanging on a balcony above ours. When the sun started to set, the boy told my boys, "I have to go home now," and then he disappeared down a hallway. "I think he's been here awhile," Ford said. "He calls this 'home.'"

Yet, besides the hotel-like annoyances of the Lodge, such as fitted sheets that popped off our mattresses in the middle of the night and curtains that never seemed to truly close, there was no better place for us than the Lodge. Unlike at a civilian hotel, the Lodge is accustomed to families using their accommodations as a temporary home. I got to know the front-desk staff in a hurry. They controlled the 24-hour snack bar that had a small shelf of wine. "I'll be here awhile," I told them. "I'm going to need more wine."

Six nights into our stay, I saw a new family moving into the room next to ours. The mother seemed so optimistic when she told her children, "See, they even have a kitchen here." But my time was coming to a close. In another 48 hours, I'd check out of the Lodge and begin my four-day journey to Maine, which actually seemed like a welcome respite compared to another night of drying my underwear on the balcony and heating up macaroni in the kitchenette. I tried to smile at the other mother and at the same time hide my delight about leaving.

As the Lodge disappeared in my rearview mirror, I thought about Mom and her story of staying at a base hotel for six weeks. It's legendary, really. I mean, six weeks? Either Mom exaggerated this tale over the years, or her base hotel had a whole lot more wine. Maybe, perhaps, it was a little bit of both.