What is Home?

Been looking around my house a lot lately, trying to figure out why I’ve never really felt comfortable there. Even in our last house, I always felt like I was “visiting”. (Well, except for the dirty diapers and all that), but it’s a strange feeling to come home and think there’s some place else you belong.

And I don’t mean that family-wise. Just that it doesn’t feel like *mine*. I sat and thought about it a bit, and I realized that so much of what we have – the furniture, the pictures, the decorative “stuff” that’s hanging about in bits and pieces – isn’t mine at all. And it never was. I’ve never really been furniture driven, for example. I like to look at it, but that’s about it. Mr myn loves window shopping for stuff – so, when it came down to it, for the most part I let him pick it out. It’s all lovely stuff, but I think mr myn’s taste outstrips the house sometimes. 😉

(The last sofa I got I picked out though, so that’s ok.)

I don’t know. It just feels like we bought some of it because we were “supposed to.” Honestly, I think we’ve used that dining room set like 15 times since we bought it like 7 years ago. Waste of space and just a massive clutter collector.

But I can live with the furniture – I think it’s that we have so many paintings and knickknacks – mostly given to us by family members and I kind of feel like we just got stuck putting them up because it’s something we “ought” to do. They are all very nice things and people have been very generous, so I can’t complain about that, but the more I look at them, the more I realize they aren’t *me* at all. They’re there because they look good, or because they go with the furniture or we didn’t want to offend anyone, or whatever.

I’ve got a massive urge to just rip most of the stuff off the walls and start over. Paint. Stake a claim. *Something*.

Unfortunately I’m constrained by time. Not even money, so much – just time. I don’t mind painting myself, but hard to do with a two year old underfoot. We have a huge foyer and a huge family room. We have a giant mirror that needs to go above the fireplace (one I picked out) in the family room, but we need a massive ladder to get there. Guess where that mirror is? In the spare bedroom, leaning against a bookshelf, where it’s been for about four years. How’s that for shit?

I’ve been wondering if perhaps one of the reasons I let the housework slide as much as I do it because I just don’t care? It doesn’t feel like mine so I don’t really feel the urge to take care of it. Kinda fucked up, when you think about it, but there it is. Hard to find it in your heart to clean it up when you feel like the house is just a stepping stone to somewhere else.

On the the other hand, when Connor went and stuck the sparkly heart stickers all over the walls for Valentine’s Day, I let him. (He didn’t actually ask – he just did it). They’re still up. Call it rebellion if you will, but at least *one* of us is making the house his own.

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