lived in

My landlord comes by once in a while. Unannounced. He and his wife are older, that nebulous age where maybe they’re elderly—but not quite because they both still work handing out samples at a big box food store. I imagine them driving to work together, and it makes me smile.

Then they show up at my door when I’m in my pajamas and I have a boob hanging out and I feel less inclined to smile at their eccentricities and sweet relationship. Or they call me on the 31st to remind me that rent is due the next day. Even though we’ve been renting here for two years.

Still, still—I like them. And luckily they like us. It’s a good situation and I feel, more or less, like this house is ours. (Even if all the walls are beige except for the crazy green ones in my older son's room.)

Lately, when my landlord comes by he mentions in a gruff, fatherly tone, “Well, this place certainly looks lived in.”

I have to fight defensiveness the moment the words come out of his mouth. (The fact that he treats me like he’s my dad sets off my inner sulky angst-faced teenage girl.) Of course the house looks lived in, I think. We’re living in it.

We’re living in it.

It seems like something to aspire to, not something to complain about. When the sun shines on the floor just right and it hasn’t been washed in a few days, you can see little toe prints. Sometimes, yesterday’s dinner can be found in little bits and pieces under the kitchen table. The toy room is full of half-played games and the easel is covered in the tentative scribbles of a learning-to-draw preschooler.

Two years of toy-filled baths and squirmy little boys have left a mark, exposing the ugly green original finish on the tub. The blinds are broken in my husband’s office—those broken blinds and one patch of carpet the only remaining evidence that we once owned two cats.

Under the breakfast bar, my bare feet have left smudges on the beige paint. (Who paints interior walls and bathrooms in matte paint?) The closets are full. The furniture leaves divots in the carpet. The washing machine rattles when we run a load on super. The back yard covered in toys and the playground set my in-laws installed when my son turned two. My neighbors invite us into their yard to pick oranges and tangerines on crisp winter weekends.

In the late afternoon, the sun casts a sharp golden light across the living room.

I try not to get too attached to material things—but I like to nest, I like to feel secure, and I’m happy we’re here. I don’t know how long we’ll stay but for now, I’m glad our home is lived in. I couldn’t wish for more than that.
Copyright 2009 http://www.mommymelee.com

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