Yeah, so basically at some point... I will finish the seventh day of my seven days of gratitude. Yep. It'll happen. I think this is the third weekend that I've laid down in bed and been like, "Hmm, yeah, should probably do that. Sunday's a great day to do that!" Uh, yeah. Hasn't happened. At some point it will. I think. We'll see, I suppose.
Our home hunt is to the slowest, deadest pace ever. It's fair to say that we're keeping our eyes wide open, but we don't think the home we're supposed to be in will come around for a little while. Our new "deadline"-ish plan is before next August. WE HOPE. We really, really hope we can find somewhere before then. But we have faith. Even in just the last month since the townhome fell through we've been shown multiple ways we were needed right where we are, things that could not have been accomplished if we have moved. So again, faith. There's a purpose. We know that.
With that realization, for a long time I haven't been willing to really hang anything up or decorate anything or really home-ify anything in my parent's basement, mostly in the hope that we'd be finding our home faster than we thought. Continuing to be unsure of long we're going to be here I've decided to finally allow myself to make a home here because, what the heck, why haven't I? I think some sort of superstition in my mind was saying, "As soon as you make it all homey, then you'll curse yourself to live in your parent's basement. FOR FOREVER." True story, this is pretty much the best way to sum up my thought process. I truly was like, "Dude, can't get comfortable."
But, we are comfortable. Is it weird, that being the worst part of it all? That there's literally nothing awful about living with my parents other than being semi-selfish-son-of-a-guns and basically just asking for more? That's so weird. I think it's weird. Brad and I have agreed that it's weird. It should be hard, right? To live in someone's basement? Your parent's basement? It should be rough, yeah? It's not for us. It's super nice. And we're over here being upset at the fact that we literally have no reason to move. At all. Nothing to barter with to say, "Oh my gosh, we need a house now." Because we don't. We can wait. There's nothing rushing us. It's all crazy, basically. I'm babbling. Let's move on.
So, we're comfortable. This is home. It should be treated as such.
When we were first married, Brad and I volunteered to clean the Oquirrh Temple. We were assigned to clean up the laundry room. The funniest part about cleaning the temple is that it's so flippin' clean to begin with. So we're like, "Uh, okay. What do we do?" So we're sweeping and wiping things down, and seriously there's a place for everything in those laundry rooms. Big, beautiful, full of white linens. Functional, gorgeous. I had never seen function, cleanliness, and organization so beautifully put together. I've always wanted a home like that. I've realized that not allowing myself to make what is truly a temporary home still home has hindered my ability to make that happen.
The other week we deep cleaned for a pool party I was hosting for my Activity Days girls and their dads. I needed to clean all of our rooms just in case the girls or their dads wanted to change in the house before going home (none of them did). After it was all over, I was immediately thinking, "Holy crud, I don't want to do that again." So each day I've been working to make that happen. At the end of each day, I pick things up. I try and make sure that when I leave a room, it's a little cleaner than I left it, or at least not dirtier. The house isn't perfect, but it's clean. For some reason, the little day-by-day effort to keep it clean has allowed me to allow myself to accept that it's home, and how awesome that is.
Having a home is treating it how you want it to be treated. I don't mind non-perfection. I'm not huge on random chochkies and doodads (these are legitimate words, I swear). I love putting things up that mean something, or I'm okay just leaving a space blank until I find a function for it. I've finally realized how I want George's room to function and I've been working on that, working on putting up things that matter to George (which means wheels and The Legend of Zelda and blue; seriously, it does).
Our basement kitchen is a high-traffic area. I prefer to get ready in there because I like the natural light, and we like to get ready in there because our bathroom is connected to George's room, so the kitchen we don't have to worry as much about being quiet. The kitchen is where we give George his baths and prep his whole nighttime ritual. Basically, we had a lot of crap hanging around the kitchen. So, I pulled out some metal tins I bought on mega-clearance last Christmas and I slapped some chalkboard labels from the Dollar Store on them and tried it out. And hey, it functions. I like it. We're keeping this system. It's nice, everything has a place, every thing has become so easy to find and put back. And hey, it looks nicer! But overall, it makes this home, because things are finding a place. I'm working with what we have and I'm building a system. FINALLY.
The best thing I did this week is I finally completed a project that's I've been putting together for a while, but that's been in my head for even longer. I purchased this pallet of random frames at an auction for like $35 maybe two years ago. It was mainly for thing gorgeous, ornate, empty frame (that I have yet to find a use for, cough, cough), so everything else was sort of a freebie/bonus. Most of the frames are slightly damaged, including a giant 30x40 that had a butt ugly piece of artwork in it (seriously, just epicly terrifying). I had a plan to make a family collage of sorts in it since I got it. And, this week, I finally finished it, printed it, and hung it up, and it's awesome the impact it has.
The greatest surprise I got from it is just how much George loves to stop and look at it every day. He'll ask to be picked up to look at it together. This is mostly a vanity thing for him, but he likes to point out Mom and Dad from time-to-time, so that's nice of him. Pretty much I just never realized how much of an effect having simply a picture of yourself hanging on a wall can make a place home. Even George felt it. It made him happy. It makes me happy to walk by that giant thing (seriously, just giant; each picture within the collage is over 6x8, that thing is monster) and to see my little family in a few of our favorite photos.
It made me feel stupid for keeping myself from doing this sooner. There's just something about making your mark on your home through pictures and creating function and organizing based around how your life runs there. However temporary that home may be, it's still home. We've been here for two and a half years now, and it's time to allow it to be home.