I've been asked many times over the last few months whether or not our new house feels like home.
'Not yet,' I usually say, my voice echoing in the receiver and revealing our still-empty living room. 'But we're working on it.' Translation: We've still got some stuff to buy yet before our house feels like home. This is the superficial answer, of course, because as every woman in her thirties knows (or should know), to be full and to be fulfilled are two very different things.
Yesterday T came over with her family, and I'd been stressing for a week about making our house comfortable for them. If our house still didn't feel like home to me, how could I make it feel like home to them? There is something that happens when friends from your old place come to visit you in a new place, something underlined by a desire for their approval and a need for affirmation that you made the right decision to move.
After dinner we took Mason upstairs for his bath. It was the first time I'd used the tub, and it took a few tries for me to figure out which knobs were the right ones. He played while T and I talked about woman-in-her-thirties type things, and L and T were downstairs talking about whatever it is men in their thirties talk about.
And it occurred to me as I took these photos that I felt more comfortable in my new surroundings than I'd felt before. My house had suddenly become home; not with a delivery from Pottery Barn, but with the sounds of my friends' laughter echoing in it.