Written on March 14th: Last night I sat at the kitchen counter streaming tears into my steaming soup. Paul sat on the stool beside me in a state of silent shock. My reaction was not at all what he anticipated when he told me we bought our first home. Honestly, it wasn't what I expected either. I imagined overflowing joy, rainbows, and unicorns. I thought I'd want to shout it to the world and obnoxiously bring it up in every casual conversation. "Hey! How are you? How are your kids doing? Did I mention we bought a house?" I pictured family dinners in the Salt Lake Valley, and while guests munched on confections so decadent it would render them speechless, a sweet baby boy would slumber in his blue room down the hall. I saw beams of real sunlight pouring through the windows as Andrea teased her grandma and laughter roared around the room like a hot breeze. I dreamed of quiet nights full of snuggles and couch time with my sweetheart while the children slept above. So, I think I was as shocked as Paul was when he texted about our approved contract and I felt my stomach melt into molten lava and threaten to erupt from my throat.
I spent the whole evening mulling over my mood, trying to find a reason for my upset. Was I getting cold feet about moving to Salt Lake? (I've never lived more than four miles from my parents.) Was I frightened to live in the big city? Was I worried about the projected move-in date that happened to be the day after my due date? Was I worried that the square footage, smaller than I original hoped for, would swallow us alive before we had time to unpack? Was I hormonal? Was I still getting over the trauma of Andrea's flu from the last two days? Was I panicked because I hardly remembered walking through the property because I was holding the previously mentioned puking toddler? Does it even have a linen closet? CAN I LIVE AND FUNCTION WITHOUT A LINEN CLOSEST?!?!
After dinner I left the house for some much needed air. I spoke to my parents who talked to me about the first house they built together, the house of my childhood in Small Town, Illinois. I started to remember Christmas mornings and baths with my sister. I remember spilling a glass of milk on my uncle in our blue and white kitchen. I remember pealing dead frogs off the road and fanning the smoke alarm in the hallway that beeped wildly after anyone took a shower. It wasn't a large place, but it was cozy and safe. It was home. With zero memories of the linen closet, I still remember it feeling like home.
After a night of rest, the morning sun brought clarity to my scattered brain. I realized that in the confines of a gated community in Salt Lake City, there is an empty lot that awaits to receive the foundation of our town home. It will be the place where I love and nurse and kiss and scold and teach and nurture and probably threaten my children. They will call it home and someday reminisce about the box elder bugs on the playground, coloring on the kitchen table, throwing up on the home teacher, and spending warm afternoons picking the neighbor's flowers for mommy bouquets.
I'm quietly excited now, and praying the the domino's fall into place as we go through this process. I'm ready for this next adventure.