I was thinking today about how attached I am to this house. The house we came back to from our honeymoon. The house I brought my baby (babies?) home to. The house in which he took his first steps and said his first word*. The house with the big skylight overhead in our bedroom. How will I ever give it up? Our next house better have an adventure playground, that’s all I’m saying.

On clear mornings, the sun streams through the skylight and there’s a neat square of sunshine on the carpet. I can’t resist going to sit in it, wherever it is. I plop Henry down in it after his bath and let him dry off in the warm. We turn our faces up to the light and luxuriate in it like fat cats. Also like cats, we discover many tangles of hair around our persons on the carpet. This is when I make my weekly resolve to vacuum more often.

This morning, the sunshine lit up the doorway to the landing. Henry was napping. I sat on the floor with my scriptures and read and thought, delicate heat on my skin, glare on my face, metal carpet strip digging into my bottom. It was everything I needed to have a good day.

Our next house better have an adventure playground AND a tap that delivers melted chocolate AND a built-in cinema. Or, you know, just a big skylight and some quiet half hours.

*Incidentally, I’ll give you three guesses as to the word he chose. He’s been babbling ‘dadada’ for ages, while I’ve been in comfortable denial. Now there’s no mistake: ‘daddy!’ ‘daddy?’ ‘daddy!’ ‘daddy!’

Tsk. Favouritism.

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