being a mom
Nothing In This House Belongs To Me So I’m Building A Fort in The Backyard
We’ve always been apartment people. Back when my husband was still my boyfriend and I was freshly knocked up, we had to move off campus and play grown-ups in a series of tiny boxes, all of which I remember fondly: there was the ramshackle upper quarter of a quadplex in downtown Savannah with no air conditioning and a beautiful view of the neighborhood El Cheapo gas station where you could buy loose cigarettes, straight razor blades, and plastic roses in glass tubes that conveniently resembled crack pipes but definitely weren’t crack pipes, *wink*.
There was the studio in Atlanta that cost a million dollars a month. Back to Savannah where we had to sign a lead paint waiver, then on to Austin in an apartment that appeared to be leasing land from a feral cat reserve, then one where the oven was borrowed from the ‘70s, and my neighbors threatened to kill my two-year-old, and finally a quiet 2 bedroom that was perfect except for the fact that my car got broken into twice.
If you live in an apartment, you know how cramped it can get. I am extremely jelly beans of anyone who has ever had their own room because I’ve never had one. From childhood to college to the real world, someone has always been all up in my biznass.
So when my husband and I were looking over our budget a few years ago and one of us realized, “holy shit, we can totally buy a house if wanted to and no one could stop us because we’re adults now and we can do what we want”, I had some pretty big dreams.
Granite countertops! 5 bedrooms! Backyard! I could hang pictures and not have to spackle the holes with toothpaste later to get my deposit back! Most of all, I was envisioning my room; I wasn’t sure where my husband would sleep but of course I would get that canopy bed my inner 8-year-old wanted, and he could just get out of my face.
The reality is that we purchased a 1400 square foot three bedroom, two bath foreclosure with fixtures from the ‘80’s and a galley kitchen. None of the doors really shut, and the entire thing is an homage to the heyday of the popcorn ceiling. Still, I love my little brass doorknobbed, lumpy ceilinged abode. It is the largest place we have ever lived in, and I am fully aware that the following sentence is a stupid white whine:
I need more space.