My house is small. When we looked at it the first time (and the second and third time, because we apparently lack decision making skills), we discussed the small size and whether we could make it work for us and our quickly growing family. We also discussed the potential for growth the house possessed, due to the unfinished upstairs. We promised ourselves that within a few years we would pay down our debt, and then use that money towards finishing the second level of the house.

Fast forward nearly three years later: our debt is not paid down. Our house isn’t smaller than it was (because that’s just not possible), but due to the arrival of our sweet CallieGrace, it is so. Much. Fuller. You can’t walk through the living room without tripping over toys. We have a couch and three chairs that really don’t fit in our living room, because we needed enough room for family friends to have a place to sit when they visited. Our closets are overflowing. And now, on top of everything else, the high chair is sitting conveniently positioned in front of the tv. Why? Because I decided to sell our dining room furniture in pursuit of something that would better fit our space. So my kid is living her best life, eating her meals while sitting directly in front of the tv. (Mom of the year right here; I’m just gonna pat myself on the back for that one.)

But today as I walked (well, tripped), around my small home, I realized that it’s not just small: it’s cozy. It holds our memories. It holds my piano, that my parents have made sure traveled with us to every home. It holds the little blue sofa table, that I thought was so beautiful and paid sixty-nine precious dollars for when we were first married. It holds my cute little rescue dog that we got when my husband had to work third shift and I was too nervous to be alone at night. We had promised each other that she would always sleep in her crate, but somehow she always ended up in bed with me watching Grey’s Anatomy reruns until he got home and I could finally sleep a few hours. It’s where I became a stay at home mom, instead of a working wife. It’s the home where we started our “real lives”, where our hearts have grown fuller day after day.

My life is not at all how I pictured it. I wasn’t interested having kids anytime soon, and here I am with a tiny little best friend who holds me hostage in the guest room bed, night after night. When I found out I was pregnant, I was determined that I would continue to work; I told myself and others I had worked too hard for my degree and career, and our family would be just fine if I continued to work. But as this tiny little dictator, who calls me Mama, holds my hand and pats my arm at night while she falls asleep, I know my husband and I are doing something well and I’m right where I am supposed to be.

My life is not at all how I pictured it. I wasn’t interested having kids anytime soon, and here I am with a tiny little best friend who holds me hostage in the guest room bed, night after night. When I found out I was pregnant, I was determined that I would continue to work; I told myself and others I had worked too hard for my degree and career, and our family would be just fine if I continued to work. 24 hours after she was born, I cried and told my husband I just couldn’t leave her. And as this tiny little dictator, who calls me Mama, holds my hand and pats my arm at night while she falls asleep, I know my husband and I are doing something well and I’m right where I am supposed to be.

As I navigate this new season of life, one that I never imagined myself in, I find that my heart feels just like my house: this cozy little home holds the people I hold most dear. So even though we’re no closer to finishing our second level, it seems that my heart and home don’t feel smaller. They just feel fuller, and I’m totally okay with that.