Monday, July 11, 2011


"Home is a place you grow up wanting to leave, and grow old wanting to get back to."
-John Ed Pearce

I did a lot of thinking last night about home. Not just the noun home, but the adjective home.
I thought of a lot of cheesy rhetorical questions I could ask, one of them being:

"Ever notice how you walk into your own home [or your parents' home] and you smell nothing, but the second you walk in another home, you smell everything?"

Home is important to me. It's important that it is clean, home-y, welcoming, and most of all: safe.

When I was younger, I was on the "every-other-weekend" roadtrip:
Every first, third and fifth weekend I was with my Dad in Livingston; every second and fourth I was with she who shall not be named on this blog in Katy. I slept in different beds, wore different clothes, ate different food, had different rules. At her house, home wasn't safe; home was a place I hated, and never stepped foot in there a day after I turned 15.

I was the kid you wanted at sleepovers. Sleeping bag on the floor? Awesome. Put on a little Fantasia and I was out. I never cried or called my Mom at 2 a.m. to come get me.

College? Psshhh. Did I cry when my parents left? In the words of Sarah Palin, "You betcha!" But I adjusted, and Collins became home.

New apartment in Dallas...alone? Again, did I cry when my parents left? Yup. But that little bitty apartment became home.

Bouncing around was what I did. I got used to it.

And it made me crave home.

After I turned 15, I was with my Dad and "real" Mom in Livingston all the time. Home was exactly what home should be:

Safe, welcoming, was my home.

Being on that perfect little street taught me what the "adjective" home was.

It wasn't a new Pottery Barn console table. It wasn't new bedding. And it certainly wasn't paint, primer, bricks or a new deck.

At the risk of sounding uuber cheesy, I will say this:

It doesn't matter if you live in a shack on the side of the road, or in "The Manor." What's inside that home is what counts. It's the memories and the people. It's the love.

It's remembering the time you slid down the stairs (in sleeping bags, no less) with your friends at your 11th birthday party; it's getting in trouble in the study when you were being a teenage smart-alec; it's your prom date ringing the doorbell and meeting you in the foyer; it's the place your Dad told you he had cancer, but told you he would be there to walk you down the aisle on your wedding day {and did}; it's the place you walked down the stairs, shut the door, got in your new husband's car and drove away on your honeymoon.

It's home.

And now, as a married woman, I think about our home. I complain about it a lot, am always wanting to update it and am constantly thinking about leaving it for a "real" home.

But then I stop and think about the adjective home, and the memories that have been made in that 970-square foot abode:

Brandon carrying me over the threshold the day we returned from our honeymoon {yep, he did that}; me making the absolute worst chicken and mushrooms dish ever {and he ate it}; getting into the worst fight, which included tears and a few doors slamming; dreaming about our future; laughing together; and just enjoying the sweet, precious time we have right now with just us two.

It might not be perfect, but it's the adjective and noun sense.

{Photos via Pinterest}

1 comment

  1. Love this post! Very well said. :) P.S. Thanks for your comment!! I need to find out the paint color and will let you know!


© Life as the Mrs.
Blogger Templates by pipdig