I tried to buy a house last week. A sweet white bungalow-ish in a nearby walkable neighborhood with a porch swing waiting for use and a need for paint, a few appliances and little more. Someone else liked it as much as I and they were able to wrap up the sale before I could – on paper – signal my earnest intent. Another chapter in re-learning how to buy a house to make a home.
The little college town on the prairie is home to so much good, but the high cost of living and housing means that the investment I make into a bungalow/fixer-upper would make for a lovely home in another town with less need for fixing up. This reality brings more required learning into play. And persistence.
Though I still have over a year on my lease (college-town renting means leases must be signed in winter long before they expire in late summer), I have been looking because it is time to invest my heart and time into my own home and my son and his wife – well, they had a baby yesterday and when they come through next, I want to offer more than the usual “Tetrising” of people and pups and sleeping places. I want to offer them privacy that is not easily afforded in the Hobbit House.
They had a baby. A beautiful baby with his nose, her hair and two parents that are all in for her care and raising. With so many congratulations came tears and wonder. In this morning’s yoga, I wanted to run into a quiet room and weep as remembering both Magpie and K’s births. So much good they have brought to this world already.
Can I really be old enough to have a grandkiddo? Will we know each other and have secret handshakes and places in my home where she knows I hide the best art supplies, coolest new books and recipes for play dough? Will we have a steady backdrop for our memories of giggling milk out of our noses, a Christmas tree, books read and where-to-hang-the-wet-bathing-suits in summer?
Did my kids have that? I think so. Until it was time for each of us to risk everything on education or service or a life lived well. Even now, they know where the coffee is, and sheets and extra blankets and books. I hope that their kids … and pups know that wherever I am, in a yurt, on a train, in a sweet sunny home with a quirky feel or high above the clouds in a skiing village in Colorado, they always have a home with me.
Young and sparky, tween or sulky, curious or content to sit on the couch, they always have a home with me. The kids and their kids. Friends and their kids and friends. Framily.
And you. Whoever you are who lives in my heart and may not yet be known. You have a home here, too.
Wish us luck as we look for our next new sunny window through which to greet the day.