We’ve lived in our current house for close to five years. It’s been gutted and rendered, re-plumbed and re-wired. Over 25 tradesmen worked on the house in the six months it took to renovate, three days after child number one and I arrived home from hospital, we moved in.
Since then, we’ve deliberated over whether this will be a long-term home so often, I’ve lost count. We live in limbo land, unsure whether to waste money on further renovations but wanting to make the most of what we have. This is the longest I’ve spent in one place since I was a teenager. Sometimes I’m not sure if we need to move or if I’ve just lost the art of putting down roots.
I occasionally like to visualise my perfect home, completely unattainable with its “parent’s retreat” and lap pool, it has a quiet place to escape to and I’m content. Despite my little pipe dream, I know in my heart of hearts this isn’t the way to happiness.
I grew up in a small house with four siblings, one bathroom but a gigantic backyard. We had a happy childhood despite the lack of air conditioning and ducted heating. We had a vege patch, pets, an abundance of indoor plants and a goal ring cemented into the dirt. It was a home, not a house.
There’s a mound of dirt in our backyard that would make a perfect vege patch. It gets full sun for most of the day and sure, you can’t take it with you if you leave, but why wait? I don’t want to live in limbo anymore. A house is simply a structure, you don’t need a lap pool just some indoor plants, a foundation to build memories on, a dog - I’d even settle for a cat. I’d really like a home and the only thing holding me back is me.
What do you think makes a house a home?