I’ve been spending a lot of time thinking about my home lately. Well, you know.
First I was going to put it on the market and buy something that has always been just mine. But the realities of the current real estate market and the fact that we refinanced and pulled out equity within the last few years has pretty much convinced me that now is not the time to try to sell. While I may really want to live somewhere else, it’s probably just not the smartest thing for me to do. And, to be honest, I’m not at all upset to remove that potential source of stress from my life right now.
So now I’m looking at my house; the three-bedroom house with a two-car garage on a big suburban lot where we raised two kids and weathered 15 years of marriage . . . and then separated – and trying to figure out how to turn it into MY house. It feels decadent; to have all that space for just one person.
I started thinking about the word homemaker. I’ve never considered myself much of a homemaker. I think that word always just conjured up images of the mom in Leave it to Beaver with the skirt and apron, making dinner at all hours. And dusting. And flower arranging. And it implied, to me, that the home you were making was for someone else.
Been there done that (well, except for the dusting. And the skirt. And definitely the apron).
But now I really want to be a homemaker. I want to make the home; deliberately, with great intent, enjoying the process and the anticipating the destination.
But, homemaking for one? After thirty years of being a wife and mother, that just seems like such a hard concept for me to access.
I’m so lucky to have a home and to be able to afford to keep it – I know that makes me so different from many women in their 50’s who get divorced.
So where do I go from here?