A House or a Home?

I am a real estate agent. I’d like to start there, because that statement brings on a lot of preconceived notions. Some are true, and some are not. It is true that I see a lot of houses. Like, SO MANY HOUSES. All the time. Many houses. So many friggan houses you guys. I’m blessed because I truly enjoy that part of the job. But what it also introduces is a lot of moments where I wonder if my own house is a home. I’d be lying if I said that I don’t sometimes compare that beautifully staged new construction 85,000 sq ft colonial to my own humble abode. I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t wish my house was so tidy and free of clutter, and children, and dust. I look at a LOT of houses, and in my business it is the expectation that I will be bringing my clients to look at a house, not a home. There is a difference.

We bought our own home over three years ago. The end of 2017, with our third child just barely on the way, we bit down hard on that bullet, spent every last dollar in savings, and bought our forever home. It’s far from perfect but simultaneously it’s everything that we need. I’m not moving again. I see more than enough moves in my business to solidify that sentiment, and I love our house; I truly do. I knew it on the day that I brought our then two year old to take a quick peak at this place that was a bit over our budget, but had been on the market a few weeks. I called my husband and said…”hey, how do you feel about being near a highway?”. The rest is history. But I’m terrible at decorating. Like, really really bad. Ask any of my friends. Or all of them. They all know how desperate I am for guidance on making my house feel like a home. It’s a mishmash of styles, one finished wall and another unfinished mantle. A beautiful bedroom and an entire floor with no curtains. A new couch and a stained rug. Ugh. They say the cobblers son has no shoes. I have a house, but do I have a home?

This evening I looked at the kitchen that was scattered with dirty dishes, pots and pans. I looked left to the remote learning area (#pandemic) with backpacks and paperwork and winter clothes strewn on the floor. I looked right at the “EX-CA-BATOR” (must be yelled with a B instead of a V) and other toys left on the floor. Messes bring on stress. My stress level rises with disaster and declines rapidly when the house is clean. Often I am too tired to clean and therefore I feel stressed. All of this is normal. But, as I tidied my kitchen and put a load into the dishwasher I finally realized that whether I like it or not, this is that makes my house a home. The mess. Our mess.

The chaos is what makes a house a home. And don’t let anyone tell your otherwise. I’m sure that many of you are shaking your head at that statement. No, no. Family is what makes a house a home! It says so on my “Christmas Tree Shop” sign! Well, you’re not entirely wrong. My house has been a loving, warm home since the day we all moved in over three years ago. My home will always be wherever my family is. But for real guys. My senile dog pissed on the carpet again, there are blocks all over the entire 1st floor, the dining room table has crumbs on it from last week and there are still pine needles from our Christmas tree in the upstairs hallway even though the Christmas tree was only ever downstairs. The dead plant in the corner is begging to be slaughtered, the couch smells like potato chips, there’s a surplus of laundry spilling into the hallway, and I think I just found dried vomit on a throw blanket. This is my home.

This is not a house to be showcased, or displayed. This is a home. My home. A home full of love and messes. Full of kids who play, and adults who enjoy an evening cocktail (or three). Full of dust and intimacy. Full of warmth. This is a home that welcomes infinite joy and harbors painful deficiencies. This is a home that wraps warm hugs around bad days and lights birthday candles on the best days. This home has seen sleepless nights with babies and dinner parties with the very best of friends and family. This. Is. My. Home. And I love it, in all its mess and glory. And this is only the beginning of our journey together.

If you’ve ever had a home where you feel loved and calm and right, you can understand that there is a certain “juju” about a place. Usually my buyers associate it with their childhood homes, except they want the house to look brand new and decorated like it came of a Magnolia Homes magazine. While that is possible, it’s usually unrealistic, because those positive vibes when you walk into a house come from either you, or those who’ve lived there before you, and that’s a lot to ask for when you’re walking into a space for the very first time. You bring the juju. In your messes and your love and your truth.

House versus home is like comparing a brand new wooden spoon to one that has been loved, used, and scarred by many a beautiful meal. The tarnished, berated spoon is whittled and might appear broken or uncared for, when in reality it is the most loved spoon and will be chosen first out of the drawer before any of the others. There’s nothing wrong with the new spoon, but it hasn’t yet endured and enjoyed the love that was stirred into each and every family meal. That old spoon has seen it all, and it wears that knowledge proudly in its scuffs and burns.

Burning a little white sage never hurts, but love and messes are the ultimate deciding factor when it comes to house versus home. So bring on the mess, and don’t bother with the perfect mantle or clutter-free kitchen because this home loves us, and we love this home. Now, where was that puked-on blanket? I need to add it to the mountain of laundry and go make a drink.