As I sit here in the house I grew up in, at my mother's desk in the kitchen, with my dog at my feet, James Taylor singing in the background, I feel at complete peace. This is what I love about being home. It's a feeling that can't be recreated anywhere else in the world.
I especially love my house at Christmas. My mom is even more of a Christmasophile than I am, it's genetic. Everywhere you look there's a "touch of Christmas." Every shelf, lamp, window, railing, and dresser has something Christmas on it, and I just think that's fabulous. Even though Christmas day has come and gone, Christmas won't really be over for me until I leave this house on Sunday.
What makes this Christmas even more bittersweet is that this is most likely our last Christmas to celebrate in this house. My parents are putting it on the market in a few months, and I am, in short, devastated. I know that it's the right move-- the house is far too large for 2 people and it doesn't make any sense for my parents to continue to live out in the 'burbs, but I'll just continue to view it as a necessary evil.
I love walking around barefoot on the extra-plush carpeting. I love my Backstreet Boys posters, remnants of my teenybopper days, still hanging in my closet. I love the sound of my dog's nails clicking on the hardwood floors. I love falling asleep to the sound of Allison Krauss, James Taylor, Patsy Cline, or Motown playing over the house speakers. I love seeing our childhood playhouse through the trees in the backyard. I love the copper bartop on the basement bar and the way it smells. I even love the "weird room" where no one ever goes. I love the dogwood tree outside my bedroom window. I love eating dinner on the back deck. I love the ridiculous amount of counter space in my bathroom. I love just about everything about this house, and I'm going to freak out when it's not home any more.