From the moment I brought boxes into the condo to pack for our move my restlessness began. Quickly I became infatuated with packing the “right way” with the utmost efficiency in mind. Translated, I spent countless hours playing out scenarios of what goes where, obsessing about the perfection of it all. This is when my itching began.

Despite feeling good about starting to move into a dream home, I became anxious. I’m one of those people where everything has a place so the addition of the boxes made things cluttered. My breathing became erratic like a newcomer finishing their first 10 mile run. Big, big breaths without much relief.

In the wee hours you could find me checking Craigslist for a chandelier or a child’s bedroom set. I didn’t want to miss a deal. Nor could I move into a big gorgeous home and have it be cold, stark and empty. Undone. Nevertheless, who has any money for big purchases anymore? Intro migraines.

Fast forward to me walking around this amazing new space with wonder and pride. Oh, but what about the hideous wall colors? I need to do something about that. And what about Hope’s barren room? A few stray homemade pictures tacked on the wall with adhesive from her Dad’s toolbox. Not the dream room I imagined all these weeks. The microwave didn’t work, the garage door broke, the heat on the top two floors putzed out, the tv isn’t hung and the island counter flips on you when the slightest pressure is applied. A work in progress, right?

“At least we have a home” became my mantra. I tell myself it’s okay to feel the desperation, it is part of my Leo make up.  But when I am honest with myself I see some cold, hard facts. Many people would literally kill for this place we moved into- furnished or not. And more importantly, who am I to focus solely on things being exactly the way I want them to be right now? Have I not learned anything from our journey thus far?

My precious child consoles me when I feel frustrated about things not being “just right” and I look into her eyes. My eyes start to tear and I smile. Here is a child that is far from where she wants to be physically. She’s been so patient with the process of growing her hair, something that has been so important to her for so many months. She doesn’t pity herself. Although she has a lot to complain about, she never does.

It’s funny. I have wasted so much time trying to create the perfect home when in fact I already have it. The perfect home isn’t built with stuff, it’s grown. My children are my ideal home. And the best way to honor that is to throw the laptop aside more often and sit on the rug and play. To really listen to their stories and enjoy their imagination. To weave together those moments that make up home for them, and for me. Years down the line I bet you they wouldn’t be able to recall what lamp was where, but they will know what it felt like being together. What it felt like to be home.