I was seventeen years old the last time that I lived in an actual house.
Not an apartment, not a dorm, a real house with a garage and attic and guest bedrooms and a living and dining room that were not the same thing.
It’s a little weird. It somehow feels very grown up to have a mortgage and a house — but I am slowly getting used to it. I’m so excited for all the decorating and little updates we’ll be doing (hello, closet chandelier, where have you been all my life?!), I can’t wait for Calvin and Coco to explore our backyard, and I feel so lucky and grateful to have found a place we’ll stay for the next decade (or two).
How crazy is that?