Billy and I were in a much different place in our lives when we bought our house six years ago. We weren't married, but had been together for six years. We didn't have a dog. He wasn't finished with school. I was working for peanuts at an marketing/communications firm. We definitely didn't have Baby Billy.
I'm not sure if we lucked out or had our heads on straighter than I remember, but we got a great house. It has a formal dining room - with enough room for a gigantic farm house table; a walk-up attic, which I didn't even know I wanted; a full, usable basement; etc., etc., etc.
Our house isn't special to anyone else. It's like dozens of others in our neighborhood. But it's ours. Even now, sometimes when I turn the living room light off and walk upstairs to go to bed, I look down from the stairs at our homey living room and red dining room walls and fireplace brick I painted the first week we lived there and smile.
It's not our forever home, but it's a good home. And I'm thankful for it.