I am not, it turns out, who I temporarily aspired to be

When I moved to The Frontier some (gasp) 4 1/2 years ago, I found hte neighborhood just to the north of us simply charming - beautiful brick bungalows, craftsmen and Tudors from the 1940s-1950s. Beautiful tree-lined streets with replica gas lamp posts and oozing tons of charm. Many gutted and updated (read:expensive), some in mostly original condition (read: a huge amount of work and money).

For 4 1/2 years, I've assumed if we stayed here, I'd move into that neighborhood, priding myself on the "small house in the city" aspirations. I had no intention of being a big-house suburban dweller. None at all.

Until ... well, until our new house fell into our laps one chilly November day. And fall it did. We were becoming increasingly dissatisfied with the 70s Palace, the landlord, the whole "hasn't been painted in 10 years, never looks clean, kitchen causing Sara anxiety out the wazoo because both kids want to help and someone is going to end up doing a face plant on the stove" kind of dissatisfaction. So when the opportunity presented itself, we figured, "what the heck," and went with it.

Inside, I panicked - the house was BIG, and it wasn't just in the suburbs, it may has well been on the far side of the moon for how much I knew about the location. Never mind 1/3 of it would be rented to our baby sitter and would be occupied by pint-sized playmates for the kids 5 days a week (without that, it truly would be much too large). Never mind, the suburbs have all of my regular haunts - and the house is on a quiet street in a quiet development rather than on an Interstate cut-through. Never mind that every play date, every person that came to the door, every bin of outgrown children's clothing I had to add to the stack in the garage left me in cold sweats.

I was a city, small cottage dweller. A minimalist who didn't need much.

As it turns out, as much as I wanted to be right, I was woefully disillusioned. My idea of what I wanted - which has pretty much been the same since the beginning of time - had been taken over by the same romantic notion someone has when asserting that a 500 sf studio in Manhattan is large enough to share with a couple of roommates.

Now that the kitchen is unpacked, I can find clean underwear and the keys to the 70s palace are turned in, there is this beautiful sense of calm. Inside, of course, the voices in my head scream (loudly), "Space! Space! There is enough space! Maybe your house will be clean. Maybe your kids can have normal play dates. Maybe you'll actually make friends because you can host things."

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. But right now - I am delirious. I've driven around the neighborhood shouting gleefully - "Look! A ___ (store/library/gym/place of worship/park/service)!" I've met more neighbors in 5 days than I did in 5 months at the last place. And there is already talk that the parentals will visit more - and *gasp* perhaps we'll even be allowed to host a holiday function or two.

There is a hymn that states, "It is well with my soul."

Indeed, it is well. Very well, indeed.