Tuesday, May 24, 2011

Our House, in the middle of our street

Spending the long weekend at home wasn't a rare treat. It wasn't an escape from reality, or a long pined-for chance to stay home. It was a blissful extension of our day-to-day life, with the added bonus of an extra day with Daddy.
We have lived here for almost a full calendar year and our house is our home. Its off-white carpet has been cleaned repeatedly after hairballs and diaper blowouts. Its walls have been wiped and re-wiped of oily, cereal-encrusted hand prints. Its floors have felt the consistent thumping of enthusiastic toddler feet running all over its floorspace. Our house is well lived-in, it is our own, a reflection of who we are and were we've been.
It does not sit idle, day after day, waiting for its inhabitants to return and fill its space with music, laughter and shrieks of delight. We deliberately chose this house, cognizant of the price tag it bore, because we knew we would get the most bang for our buck by really living in it. We have chosen to live a life in this house, where I stay home with Abby, and where Skylar and Goober can count on their people being around most days.
This house is not just the space we return to at day's end to eat and sleep. This house holds our activities, our lives. It cocoons us through long winter, sheltering us against frigid cold. It holds us in tight under blankets and in warm air as we hibernate.
It lets summer in through open windows and shades as we celebrate its bounty through long, sunny days. It gives us reason to spring clean and garden, celebrating the good fortune we have to own a home.
This house has been a passion project. It is a house paid for with hard work. It is a house symbolic of what we can achieve together, and of what rewards can come to those who sacrifice for the big picture.
This weekend, I walked up the stairs from the basement, and I took notice of how familiar I felt. I scanned the living room: Abby's toy trough, her mini piano, our over-stuffed couches, our bookshelf, our giant giraffe, our wind chimes, our front closet filled with out rain boots, fleece jackets and sunglasses. I looked around and I felt as though everything were in its place, whether or not it was strewn on the floor or properly organized.
We live a life where frequent moves have been and are the norm. It is always a matter of how long until the movers come, pack our belongings and bring them to another home. To feel a sense of belonging this weekend, of "this is exactly right" gave me great comfort and something like pride in our house.
I love this house. It has been made a home by our guests, illness, Christmas, baked bread and dinner parties. It has shut its doors and incubated us through difficult, tough times. It has welcomed friends and family as we celebrate what it is to live here in Whitehorse with a little girl.
As I get ready to do things for a second time in this house (second summer, second 'longest day' BBQ, second Halloween and Christmas), I feel a quaint ownership and a real sense of accomplishment in this nest.

1 comment:

  1. Sarah, I love your home and the people who live in it. Your home has a feeling of coziness and is always welcoming. It is a busy, lived in and loved space.


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