As I was getting ready Saturday night, a very strange feeling came over me. I was suddenly living in a different era. This house is 91 years old. It has lived nearly 100 years, seen several families. The walls are still strong and standing. The floor creeks from original floor boards covered by slightly newer hardwood, but not much newer.
It's like I was still me in 2013, but I felt a strong sense of nostalgia as I ran my hands over plaster walls and freshly painted trim. I scooped Jack up from his crib and I told him about these walls, that they were nearly 100 years old. I showed him his view from his room. I pointed at the yard and said he would love that yard one day. (I made a mental note to childproof triple lock those windows.)
I told him he would grow up here, that we would grow older here. That the owner before us lived here for 37 years and maybe we would live here that long too. I told him that maybe one day he would have another brother or sister here. I told him we could walk to his new school just a few blocks north...that I too grew up in the middle of the city in a really old house. That I could walk everywhere and I never quite appreciated it because all I wanted was to be able to drive like my friends.
I told him to appreciate it. To take walks. To keep his eyes open and see things. Don't move to fast. Don't miss it. Take it in, but don't trust strangers. Be aware. Be safe, but not paranoid. I asked him if he was understanding what I was saying and I swear he nodded. He nodded.
I love everything about this house...the cracks in the walls, the chips in the floors, the ways the registers sometimes fall out of the walls because we have yet to secure them after construction. I love her natural beauty and her even more natural flaws. It's like it was built for me in 1922.
That's when you know it's right.
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