Good Bones

I've often heard a house referred to as having "good bones".
I was a young girl when my dad built our home, which I now live in with my husband and daughter. I can look at our A-frame & remember the way it looked when it was still a skeleton; bare studs standing on newly poured foundation. I liked wearing high heels on the foundation because of the important "click clack" sound it made as I clomped around on wobbly ankles. I loved the smell of fresh lumber and the sound of nails dropped on plywood. I remember the way the wind & rain sounded beating against house wrap that blanketed it from weather & how rain accumulated in the plastic tarp that covered the upstairs before the roof was put on. We'd had a decent storm roll in during the summer & my cousin & I soaked our feet in the warm water between beams while the radio played "Boys of Summer" by Don Henley.
My curly loop handwriting is on the backs of kitchen drawers (numbering the drawers was a small task my dad gave me to keep me busy) & under shelves where I wrote little messages to mark the passage of time. I have photos of the house in all the stages of building, my favorite probably being my second cousin sitting with arms outstretched atop the peak of the A-frame the day he & a crew constructed it.

When you become an adult & move out to start a family of your own, home is still where you go, if you're lucky, when you visit the people who raised you. You live in a new place but when you go back to visit, you say, "I'm going home". My husband & I were three years in to our marriage when my parents ended theirs. Joe & I were looking for our own home during this time.
I was reluctant at first to move back home. It had become a museum of sorts, especially my room, filled with artifacts of who I was as a teenager; a time capsule for the days leading up to my inevitable departure. Even the calendar of the month & year that I moved out still hung on the wall. Most people move in to homes already lived in by others but it is a strange feeling to come back to a place you've already lived in what feels like another life. This home held the memories of childhood & my parents. I thought I wanted a new-to-me home to start new memories. The location and the price could not be beat however & so the process of moving in started at Thanksgiving. It seemed fitting that I'd moved out on a holiday (4th of July) & returned on another.

As we started cleaning out my old bedroom & rifling through the attic filled with forgotten things, I realized it wasn't a return to old ways but an opportunity for us to give the house a new life.
Slowly, the house became unrecognizable from the inside. Fresh paint went up on the walls, carpet was ripped up, new light fixtures illuminated the rooms. When we found out our daughter was on her way, we put all of our effort into the upstairs "guest/junk room". My husband spent all of his free time painting, applying chair rails & new baseboard while I filled it with all things vintage Paris & Hello Kitty (2 of my favorite things as a girl).
When it came time for new carpet, the installers asked if we wanted to replace any floor boards.
I instantly thought of the floor board directly in front of the door to the nursery which has always creaked since the summer storm before the roof was put on. I know this house so well I step over that spot in the floor without even thinking. It reminds me though, of that summer, the radio & soaking my feet in the warmed rain water. Everything in this house reminds me of my childhood & now gives me a hopeful feeling for the future. I like that I remember my dad with saw dust in his curly hair, that driving by a lumber yard has always made me homesick. I like knowing that the same home I was raised in is the first place my daughter came home to, that she'll learn where the creaking floor boards are but not before she's a toddler & I hear her pass over it on the way to our room when she wakes in the middle of the night.
I like how the house seems to heave a sigh & settle each night, the way a breeze feels floating up the staircase when the windows are open in the summer. I love that this house was a haven for me growing up & I hope it's my daughter's safe/peaceful place, too. There is so much to remember & so much to look forward to. This house has a lot of lives left.
"No," I said to the installers, "nothing needs to be replaced." And I meant it.

A house with good bones doesn't need too many repairs.

A Letter to my Daughter

Dear Haven,

On this day last year, you were simply an idea; a hope, a wish I was trying to pray into existence. I look at you now, 11 weeks old & I am still astonished at the miracle of it all. I can't imagine ever looking at you without wonder & amazement.
You were born on a rainy September evening. Time had no meaning while I labored through the day; I was focused on nothing but bringing you into this world safely. When at last you made your grand entrance, I remember letting out a sigh of relief as I heard you cry out with your first breath. I watched the nurse carry you to the table to be cleaned up and there was nothing but roll upon roll - you were so chunky. The last week of my pregnancy I had felt every bit of your 8 lbs 5 oz! You were so wide eyed & alert. When they put you in my arms at last, I remember saying, "Hi, baby. I have waited so long to meet you." It wasn't just 41 weeks I waited - I had waited my entire life.
You are my child, my fate. It is nothing but awe-inspiring to meet a soul mate (because there are so many different types of soul mates you'll have in your lifetime) - to look at another human being & know instantly that they are part of your destiny. You were knit divinely inside of my womb, my body nourished your body - & it was you who created me, into a mother. I understand now the overwhelming bond, the feeling that every woman tries to put into words but can never quite get right.
While you are still so small & you have these stunning & delicate features, I have never looked at you as fragile. I'd barely held a baby before I had you; the few that I did hold, I treated like they would break so easily. Since the moment you came into this world kicking & screaming, I have laughed (& sometimes sobbed) at the determination you already exhibit. I see fierce determination in everything you do - holding your head up, the wild frustration when you can't roll over, the screaming until you're red in the face until I figure out what exactly is wrong with you. You are no fragile little thing. You are my wild thing.
When I was pregnant, I wrote letters to you all the time. Now that you're here, I don't have much time to write my daily thoughts to you; I'm too busy living this new life & trying to drink up every single moment with you. You are growing before my eyes! Each day you look like a whole new person. I have never been more aware of how fast time is; how precious each second is. I gave up trying to be the perfect mother in the first week of your life. Instead, I am trying to embrace each & every beautifully flawed day, moment by moment. I love that I learn something new each day now, just like you. We're learning together…
The newest unexpected bonus of motherhood has been remembering how certain things felt in my own childhood. Today we were riding in the car - the sky was dark & it was pouring rain. I remembered the feeling I used to get riding in the backseat of the car with my parents up front in the middle of the night; there was a little innocent thrill of only being able to see the beams of headlights & not knowing exactly where we were. I just knew I felt safe with my parents. I loved thinking about how you'll feel that way, too. Maybe you already do because before I knew it, you weren't chattering away (or screaming your head off) in your car seat - you were fast asleep.

Infinitely,

Mom