How My House Became a Home

I didn't want to live in the suburbs.

As a die-hard Chicagoan, I never got the appeal of the land that is home to the 847, 708, and 630 area codes (and I'll be generous and include 815).  Those towns seemed to melt together into a blob that could be called "Oak-River-Grove-Park," and I could never tell where any suburb actually started. And actually living in the area? Heck, no.

 My outlook started to shift, though, when my husband and I decided it was time to move out of our cramped-but-cozy one-bedroom apartment in Chicago's Northwest side, and into a house.

Now, let me tell you what house-hunting was like four years ago.  You would see a place that you liked, at a price that you could maybe afford, and you would be out-bid by the time you placed an offer.  Or – and this was worse – you'd find a house that you loved, but only if you included your first-born and a kidney with your offer.  Lather, rinse, repeat, and you can see why our patience wore thin.

"I think we'll need to branch out, and maybe look into the suburbs," my husband finally said after another disappointing day of house-hunting. 

I knew he was right.  Our price range would not get us much more than a refrigerator box if we stayed in the city.  I bit my lip and chose my words carefully.  "Fine," I said.  "We'll look at one house.  One."

"One house" became "one day of looking," and then that became "let's call a Realtor."  And then that became "let's drive around with said Realtor and see about a billion homes."  I started to really picture our future, and what we could do with a house in the suburbs.  We could have a garden, an office, and maybe a wine cellar (I got a bit ahead of myself with the last one).

We finally found our house in Buffalo Grove on a hot April morning; to be honest, I didn't even like it.  I was bored and frustrated, and I wanted to move into a home, any old home.  I didn't care about countertops or hardwood floors or cabinets. We placed our offer, it was accepted, and we moved in. I was pragmatic at this point – you just need four walls and a roof, and yeah, this house would work.

For the first few months after we moved in, I felt like a guest in someone else's house, as though the sellers would come in at any moment and kick us out for removing the sunflower-themed wallpaper.  I struggled to get my bearings in an area with roads that twisted and turned like a snake.  I melodramatically referred to the move as an exile, and consoled myself with the thought that we'd maybe move again in a few years.

And then, a funny thing happened to me:  I fell in love with the house, and I think it was when I looked out of my back door and saw the sunlight peaking through the tree leaves, giving the yard a dappled appearance.  I was struck with the simple beauty present in my own yard, and I was ecstatic to think that I could see the same thing, year after year, in the same location.  There was a comfort in the repetition.

"This is it," I thought.  "This is home."  It was more than just a place to keep my car, and so much more than just four walls and a roof.