It finally hit me.

I was brushing my teeth in the kitchen tonight, like I've been doing since I ripped out the bathroom vanity last week. So I was standing in the little space between the bedroom and bathroom doors, looking at my bed, which is now set up in the living room. I'm camping in here now that the floor is finished so I can work on the bedroom.

Suddenly, for no reason at all, this place felt like my home. Maybe it was seeing my things strewn across all three rooms, a breadcrumb trail of shoes, purses, tools, video tapes, Bose remote controls, blankets, towels, unmentionables, laminate flooring and partially assembled flat pack furniture. Mine. All mine. All here because I put it here. All mine because I paid for it with money that I worked to earn. Mine mine mine!

But it's not a selfish kind of "mine," although it sounds that way when I say it repeatedly. It's an accomplished, proud, happy "mine."

I wonder how I'll feel when this place is finished and decorated and everything is put away. I wonder if I'll ever put everything away.