The house in which I grew up wasn’t the fanciest. I never knew what granite countertops were. I couldn’t name the nicest brands of furniture or tell you what the heck crown molding was. My Hair The House The Kids Life It’s All Messy. But what I did know is that kitchen tables were meant for family dinners and chat-it-out-until-we-aren’t-mad-anymore family discussions. Living rooms were meant for family game nights and seating for friends who showed up unexpectedly but were always welcome.
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Walls were meant for displaying family memories and the grade school artwork I was proud of. Backyards were meant for digging for worms while my mom gardened or for playing a game of badminton with my dad after dinner. My home wasn’t about the things that were inside of it, it was about the life that happened within its walls. My Hair, the House, the Kids, Life, It’s all messy. It was about the people. The moments. The lessons. The memories. And sometimes I need to go back there to remind myself of the same thing about the home in which I currently raise my kids.
When I get obsessed with cleaning. Or finding that perfect wall decor. Or stressing about the look of our yard. Or finding that perfectly-matched-with-the-paint-color comforter… I’ll pause. And remember that in 30 years when my kids are coming back home to visit us, they’ll walk in our doors and be reminded of what “home” means too. And I hope they won’t remember the “stuff” — but will be flooded with the memories of family, friends and life moments. And that they will pass on that sentiment of “home” to their kids … like my parents did for me.