I'm calling this house my home.

My house is a transplant kid. A bungalow built in the 1930s that belongs on the beach along the Atlantic Ocean rather then in the heart of Toronto. Years ago this house was actually moved from the country to it's current location. I was seven months pregnant when I stepped into this house for the first time. The fire was burning in the living room. There was beautiful stained glass in old little windows all over the house. An old school claw foot tub sat in the small bathroom upstairs. Old rickety wood planks laid on the floor in the bedrooms. It wasn't the place I thought I would fall in love with. In fact, James is the one that dragged me to this house in the first place. I wanted a brand spanking new townhouse with ultra modern fixtures. James wanted a detached house with a backyard for Lola and Rowan. When we walked into this house with were both shocked by how much I fell in love with it.

There was a bidding war. In the end, we ended offering the maximum amount of money we could afford. When we were signing the papers, the previous owners said that the house had brought them luck and they wished us the best. We moved in two days before I went into labour. It's where Rowan will grow up.

I purchased some words from Timeless Treasures, as a housewarming present to myself. I haven't got all the words up yet. There is still the word "SPLASH" that needs to be hung on the bathroom wall downstairs. James and I are in a power struggle about the word "EATON" that is sitting on the fireplace. He says it distracts from his original watercolor painting that he bought in Australia (he has this picture tattooed on his chest and arm, that's how much this painting turns his crank). We'll see where it ends up.