Back a million years ago, in the early days of my marriage, just before the first time My Ex threw my rose-colored glasses on the ground and stomped on them, he and I bought a house. It was a cute two-story place, sage green with a dark green door, a roof with a whimsical slant, and a small fenced yard for our dogs. We lived there for almost six years. My two oldest children were born while we lived there. The latter half of my 20s was spent in that house.
And then everything between us went to shit, and we moved across the country in a desperate bid to save our marriage. To our credit, we stuck it out for nearly four more years. What can I say? I’m stubborn.
We sold the first house over six years ago and have been renters ever since, but last week, I bought MY first house. I don’t think that buying a house should necessarily be everyone’s goal. But there is something decidedly American Dream-esque about it, and I am feeling super proud of myself for being able to move into a space that works better for my kids and me.
Last night was my first night here, and the kids were with My Ex, so I invited The Leo over to check out my place and stay the night if he wanted (he did). He was proud of me, too. It felt good to show him around and have him marvel at how damn impressive it was for a single mom to be pulling this off. Hell, I’m impressed with me, too.
I haven’t hung any pictures yet. There are boxes to unpack…so many boxes. The only curtains I have up are currently secured with thumbtacks because I bought the wrong size curtain rod. One of my bathrooms doesn’t have a single electrical outlet, and my older kiddos’ room only has 2-prong outlets, so their computers are unable to be plugged in. But this house is mine. When I pause long enough from my frenetic unpacking to reflect on it all, I feel grounded, like this place — unlike my last place, which I shared with My Ex for two years before he moved out — is safe for me to begin reaching my roots into the earth, spreading out and diving deep and making it my own.