Dear Texas Home

an ode to the first home we’ve purchased…and how I’m still scared to settle in

Dear Texas Home,

You are the first home we’ve ever purchased, and I’m terrified to settle into you.

Even now, as I type the word “settle,” I feel a little cringe creeping up the back of my spine. I’m used to receiving military orders around this time and starting to sort items to keep and purge. I feel like I don’t know how to stay with you. I don’t know how to stay in general. I have grown more comfortable with the screech of packing tape and cardboard boxes.

In 2024, I realized I packed our bags for 20 different trips. I think I pushed for the trips because we didn’t move. There is a raw discomfort in staying put that chafes like a sweaty summer inner thigh rub after a long day of walking around at an amusement park. You know the one—stinging and red, a great day with a wound to prove it.

And that’s not about you, sweet house. You are dang cute with your 1,700 square feet. I can clean you in about two hours from tip to tail. You have the big open window in the front room that brightens our sweet little home library, and the back porch that steps into OUR postage-stamp back yard surrounded by a wood fence.

After we stained said fence, my mind started to see more possibilities. I imagine a corner of the yard holding a secret garden. I imagine herbs lining the porch rail. I want to add one of those kitschy signs I can hand-paint with “Miles to Narnia, Hogwarts, and the Shire.” I love hearing our kids play from the reclaimed playset we found on the marketplace for $100.

The kitchen is the command center of the house, overlooking the living area, so I can easily prep, entertain, and keep an eye on the kids playing. We added two bar seats right up next to the counter, and I love washing dishes while the kids sit there, shoveling in eggs and taking bites of muffins. The kids also have their own small nesting spaces, rooms filled with their special nature-finding boxes, books, and magnet tiles.

See how right you are for us?

No, it’s not you. It’s me.

Even as we held the sign that said “Let the Adventure Begin!” on closing day, I wasn’t sure. I’m hesitant to be fully in love. I think it’s because I’ve learned that, like all chapters in life, reality is different than expectation. Will we live with you for a long time? I think I might want to. I love the trails in our neighborhood, the pools, the neighbors who check on each other, and the taps that come on our door from kids wanting to play with my kids.

I'm glad we found you before the interest rates soared, and that it feels manageable to be here, especially as Ryan’s active duty military position comes to an end this September. His green camo uniform will morph into what, then? The other day, he came out in a powder blue collared shirt, closing the office door to take a virtual class. I observed him, eyebrows raised. Is this the new normal? I don’t know, but we have you, little house. We have a place to be, even as all else hangs in a giant, bold question mark that’s tinged with excitement and anxiety.

Your slate stone outside reminds me of my childhood home. The two front yard trees shade us as we sail leaf boats down the street in the rain. The front hall fits the “Hall Tree” beautifully, an heirloom saved from my great-grandmother, Vivian Foss. It traveled from Maine to Ohio, and from Arkansas to Texas. I love that the mirror on it has reflected five generations of our family life. I love that I have it; my mom held it for me for years. It was too fragile to move until we had a place we could settle in.

But I’ve only hung some curtains and two paintings. Typically, the whole house is decorated by now. But not here. Not with you. Being in this house could stretch past two years…three…four…five?! I suppose it’s like everything - it takes time. And that’s not something I have felt I’ve had in significant quantities. I’ve always turned our houses into homes as fast as possible because I knew leaving was imminent. The deadline for departure kept me from completing full decorating. I wanted to focus on building relationships instead of stressing over minor details.

Maybe here is where I will learn to do both.

I mean, finally, I have a blank canvas I can do anything with, and I don’t even know where or how to begin! I dared to look at paint chips the other day for our bathroom. Paint feels permanent. Others tell me it’s not, but I don’t know. The whole idea flexes a fatigued muscle in my mind. One who is wary that once I do an action like painting, I’ll need to pack again. It’ll jinx the whole thing.

I’m playing with the idea of bright Mexican tiles around the guest bathroom mirror. What about a feature wall of all the art we’ve collected in the living room? In various woodgrain frames? What about hanging that cute lace curtain we got in Germany over the bathroom window?

I think about it all, and leave it in my brain. I don’t know when I’ll get brave enough to make you mine. I cling to one thought: even though I am the new girl at decorating, I do feel like this place is ours. It could even stay that way.

Dear Texas House, I know that when I come in through your door, I feel safe here. I feel like I can grow and rest in this space.

Someone asked me the other day, “Aww, is this your dream home? Is this exactly where you wanted to be?” And I can truthfully say, “No, it’s not what I imagined at all….”

But if the conversation continued, I would tell you this is the next step. And while I might not be in my dream house or our dream location, I am with my dream people.

I’m glad that the last part is sorted.

The rest will come, but if military life has taught me anything, it is that I can fall in love with a place and its people as many times as necessary to continue loving my life.

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Green."