I’ve always loved looking at houses; I daydream while flipping through design magazines. I imagine all the things I’d do if money were no object, and then I look around me—a completely different place… I didn’t choose this house; the opportunity just came up, and then, one thing leading to another, life kept us there longer than expected.
When I was younger, I idealized beautiful, big houses—clean and tidy. My home, on the other hand, is more like a style “big bang”… I’ve never been able to change everything at once, so there are remnants of every style I’ve admired over the past 16 years. Even on their best days, my floors bear traces of some unidentifiable substance that my teenager spilled and wiped up, or piles of sand straight from our professional digger, Forest—the golden retriever who also loves to leave his hair everywhere… everywhere!
My daughter, a huge animal lover, has accumulated more and more furry—and even spiky—friends over the years… Of course, she takes care of this whole crew (2 cats, a dog, 2 rats, 2 betta fish, and a hedgehog)—it was a condition—but let’s face it, these little critters take up space…
The entryway closet (and the others, too) ends up overflowing with coats and boots, there are bills and school papers to sign that constantly cover a corner of my table, and the laundry seems to never all fit neatly in the drawers as it moves from one basket to another (I’m starting to suspect that one day, if I ever manage to wash, fold, and put everything away, I’ll find some drawers are missing).
I’ve repainted the kids’ rooms three times each since they were born, but I’ve been putting up with my own for years. I sometimes dream of a peaceful haven, but my room seems more like the epicenter of the never-ending dance of clothes… Clothes that are too small or need mending, the folding basket, and seasonal sorting all end up there in droves. Every time I think I’ve got it under control, the leaves fall, the snow arrives, the heat sets in, and just like that, I have to wash, sort, and put things away all over again…
In my dream home, there’s lots of wood paneling and beautiful, thick moldings. In my own home, I do have moldings, of course, but the most special piece of woodwork is the one used to mark my children’s height—prominently displayed between the living room and the kitchen.
Sixteen years later, I’m less and less interested in the house of my dreams. I love my tiny mortgage, and without really realizing it at the time, the moments we’ve shared here have made this house my home, my life. It’s almost as if, through all the pencil marks on the moldings, all the candles blown out in our kitchen, and all the holes my dog digs in his endless attempts to discover a secret passage to China—this house has become a part of us.
As the years have gone by, I’ve spent my first days here as a mom and as a married woman; I’ve danced here and watched my children take their first steps; I’ve cooked baby food and delicious meals here; I’ve cried and laughed until I cried; I’ve lived my life here—our story. These walls have witnessed everything that makes me who I am.
For a long time, I longed for my dream home, but now I know that the place itself doesn’t matter—it’s what happens there and the love we share that make my dream home the home of my life.