Little Home Love

You know who taught me to love my home?

I have a friend who got married right after I had my second baby. You know, when you realize that as difficult as toddlers are, adding a newborn to the mix makes them harder? And that bodies don’t just bounce back. And that your mental space seems to have shrunk. And why does this toddler ask so many questions? That phase.

She married a friend of mine, moved to my city, and started settling in. She was a childhood pen-pal, the sister of my sister-in-law, and I’d known her for years. But not really knowing her, you know? She was thrilled to have a home to furnish with thrifted and garbage picked items. And we got to work building our friendship.

Her table didn’t match her chairs and her chairs didn’t match the wood on the floor. (We painted the table and chairs together while my babies napped.) And soon, they were simply lovely. Like watch-the-sun-crawl-invite-your-friends-over-for-coffee lovely.  She somehow knew how to use a belt sander, or seemed to not really mind not knowing and figuring it out. 

We laughed and painted and flipped and (sometimes flopped). But every evening after an exhausting day out working on her house and trying to find my kids every few minutes, I’d go home and look at my own apartment. 

At first, I was jealous. She had a cute little home while I was still renting an ugly apartment. But slowly, after we took a particularly ugly curb-side table and made it beautiful, my perspective shifted. Or after she found wing-backed chairs that were terrible, but somehow in her living room were charming, my heart asked — what could I do with my space? Not just my apartment, but my home? 

Gradually I started to see my space differently. Maybe my room could be clean and fresh and inviting. Maybe my kitchen was dark, but how about painting it and making it look intentional? Or what if I kept scouring Facebook marketplace? I bet you I too could find a couch that I loved. 

And so it began. A passion for homemaking that went beyond cooking. I started nesting. It was the beginning of the end of my postpartum depression, the beginning of the thrill I now find when my laundry is done. I love to make my space my own. Am I that great at it? Maybe not. I’m always improving.  

But it’s mine and “I like a house I can love and cuddle and boss. Just like ours here.” — L. M. Montgomery in The Blue Castle