Rob and I bought a house about six months after we got married, and sold it when Westley was about four months old. Westley never lived there, except as a fetus living inside of me. We moved out of that house and into our much-maligned (by me, on this blog) basement apartment just a few weeks before Westley was born.
There was nothing wrong with the apartment, really. Sure, we didn't own it, but it was a good space for a couple with a new baby. There was even a tiny nursery: a former laundry room, drywalled, painted, and hardwood-floored out of utilitarianism and into coziness. The floors were heated. It was cool in the summer and warm in the winter. And the kitchen was the nicest I have ever cooked in.
(I really miss the kitchen, actually.)
But even though Westley was born in the apartment, I never felt really connected to it. And while it's too soon to feel like I have a connection to the new house (I still stutter when trying to relate the address), it seems to fit better. The house isn't much bigger than the apartment was, but it still feels as though we can grow into this space, instead of worrying about growing out of it.
Clothes drying, cat eating, routine settling...
Christmas sealed the deal. As we cleaned and straightened, cooking and arranging in preparation to host two small gatherings, I had the strange sense that the house was becoming part of our family. I wanted to do nice things for it, so it would be comfortable. Happy.
Continuing the accidental Christmas tradition of taking pictures of the cat(s) with the presents.
This house is the first place we've lived and wanted to stay. Because suddenly we're in a home where I can imagine our little family being happy for a long, long time.