There was a crooked house.

We've been scraping and sanding all day. He makes it fun. The boys shuffle around in the dust with their little screwdrivers and hammers, banging on the walls and pointing at everything we're doing. 

Nothing in this life is perfect, and having the imperfection of an old fixer-upper in my constant sight is a comfort. It we can love this old house with all of it's crooked windows and cracked floors, we can love each other with all of those imperfections and pieces of ourselves that we just can't get perfect. It keeps the cold and rain out, and that's what we do for one another. Imperfect people in an imperfect house in an imperfect world. We patiently scrape, level, repaint, envision and dream, hoping that our small improvements will make this place "us." It's not perfect, but it's perfect for us. We're not perfect people, but we're perfect for each other. Just like there is nothing so nice as coming home, there is nothing so nice as coming home to him at the end of a long day. The piece of his chest where my head fits perfectly, fits better every year, and when we cuddle up to watch a movie or just talk about the day, our arms and legs know where they belong. 

This house becomes ours more and more as the years pass, and I don't know what our family would be without this wonderful place we've settled. Our home is a crooked house, but it fits us perfectly.