We spent all day yesterday packing and all day today moving into our new house. Our new house that we own*. The first house we’ve ever owned. And if all goes well, the last we ever own.
It’s a big old rambling 1940s home on a good sized block in the hills about 10 km from the Adelaide city centre. There’s lots of room and it is laid out so that even when the boys get older there will be plenty of space for all of us. We’re secluded from our neighbours, surrounded by trees and the moon and stars are clear and bright.
Now it isn’t perfect. Far from it. There’s a leaky faucet. The fence needs finishing. The shower is either hot or cold but never warm. The garden needs some serious work. I can’t figure out where all our stuff is going to go. The trains are frequent and close.
But it is ours. In all its glory and all its problems.
It is ours.
I’m sitting here on the couch, surrounded by boxes with the bloody farting dog at my feet trying to summon enough energy to get up and go to bed and watching that tired Christmas classic “It’s a Wonderful Life”.
And tonight it kind of is.