I keep getting these good little shocks, such as: hey, we could compost now! (Yes, I was raised such that "composting" is a verb.) Or: "I hate that windowsill in the bathroom," followed by the years-of-renting-instilled feeling of loathing and helplessness, followed by the thought, "damn, I can change it if I want."

Sometimes the number of things we need to do to this house overwhelms me. Where will we get the money, time, and energy?

But other times, it delights me. I was ready to buy a house at nineteen; I already knew, and had known for years, what kind of house I wanted. I had to wait until I was thirty-one to buy a house, though, and it wasn't, of course, exactly the house I wanted, thanks to realities of money and the market. I waited a long time for this, though.

It's sinking in, but in stages.