Sometimes I wish we lived in a “real” house.
Don’t get me wrong; I realize how lucky we are to even own property in this day and age (and city and economy). But every so often- in a fleeting way, really- I think about how lovely it would be to have:
-A layout of the house which requires no explanation. (“Well, yeah, it used to be a kitchen, but now we’re using this room mostly for bookshelves. And that rocking horse. And that end table to cover that pipe which sticks out of the wall at an odd angle.”)
-Things which need no warnings. (“We don’t have a key for that lock.” “Just leave that light switch off, okay?”)
-More rooms on the same level. Like all the kids’ bedroom on the same floor and a kitchen within earshot of any of the rooms where the kids are playing. ‘Cause sometimes a stern “stay in this room” and “don’t drag the stroller up the stairs” doesn’t have the impact that one would hope. (Turns out, a three-flat works best when it’s actually three separate apartments. WHO KNEW.)
“Let’s put the baby in this crack den, honey!”
“Oh, P.J., you have the most magical ideas!”
-A backyard which didn’t require locking up the entire house to go out (and around the side) to access. (You know your home is weird when you actively envy people with back doors and gates not held together with partially rusted rebar.)
However, here are the things I love about this house. (It’s a super good thing people don’t know how long it takes me to write a post/stare off into the distance and attempt a list of reasons why I love this house):
-There is room for everything. Everything. (Momentarily ignoring the downside of what happens when you have room for everything, I’m gonna just stick with the positive on this one.)
-It’s kind of fun to think that only P.J. and I know the secret handshake for each little weird part of this house. Or the inside joke. Either way, it’s a super exclusive club and we have tee shirts and I’ve already said too much.
-The part-time job that is Getting The Kids Into The Backyard actually is worth it most of the time; by city standards, our yard is practically The Back 40. And those pain-in-the-eyeball gates actually do a decent job of containing my children. (Usually.)
-This home has become a collage- or a 3D scrapbook, really- which started when two idiotic, expectant newlyweds put money they barely had into a home and neighborhood which was considered “transitional” at best. It charts our burgeoning (which autocorrect attempted to change to “bludgeoning,” ha HA) home repair skills, the love we forcefully shoved into the rooms we created for children (like, gave them walls and windows and insulation), and the myriad of ways we’ve been playing at Grownup for these past five years.
Coolest of all? No matter how much I despise certain sections of this abode, this will always be the first place where we brought our kids home. And in their memories, it will be their first home. And I doubt they’ll remember things like wonky railings and bumpy plaster walls and good LORD what is that smell, but will think back in sepia-toned mental snapshots of puzzles and blanket tents and occasionally peeing on the couch.
So yes. Even though I occasionally do not care for this house one iota, I will always kinda sorta love it.
Although that couch is probably gonna need to go.
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