I can't even apologise for it; I need to write about it, because it's taking up my entire brainspace. I've been forgetting to do things like laundry, because I've been worrying that I would never find somewhere I wanted to live, and laundry just seems unimportant by comparison.
The thing is, I'm not just looking for a HOUSE.
I am looking for somewhere to teach my girls to cook. Somewhere to sit outside holding my husband's hand, and looking at the stars. Somewhere to bring new friends. Somewhere to revel in new found joys, and comfort the inevitable hurts. Somewhere to grow. Somewhere of our own.
I am looking for a place for my family and I to live our lives.
It feels so strange to be walking through other people's houses, filled with their lives, and considering putting my life there.
I feel kinship to houses where I see evidence of small children; where I see guitars stashed in corners, and half finished quilts peeking out from behind sewing machines. I also just can't imagine living in the houses that are all fixed up and fancy. (I am anything but fixed up and fancy.) Moving into a house where everything is already done would feel like living in someone else's house. It's the diamonds in the rough that speak to me; the houses that you walk into and start seeing all the things that you would do if it was yours.
Which may be why we loved that first house so much in the first place -- the possibilities.
Which is probably why we've put in an offer on a house that needs a lot of work, but that I can see myself sitting at the window, with a blanket wrapped daughter who was startled awake by thunder cuddled on my lap, watching lightning streak across the sky.
And, if said shelter just happens to have room for me to have space to work instead of on top of an old cardboard box behind the couch in the living room? All the better.