Seven years ago, we bought the dumpiest house in our dream neighborhood. We've been fixing it up as we can afford to do so—which is to say we've been fixing it up very, very slowly. A lot of the work has been unglamorous and terribly expensive. Oftentimes, just as we fix one problem, something else falls apart. I've been told this is par for the course when you buy a home that is 75 years old. 

For seven whole years, I have desperately wanted to fix the kitchen. The cabinets were built in 1950 and let me tell you: they smell like it. The countertops are gross and stained. The stove is old, crusty, and unreliable. We have no pantry and very little storage. I recently heard of a new book called I Just Wish I Had a Bigger Kitchen And Other Lies I Think Will Make Me Happy and my first thought was: wow, I am 100% the target demographic for this book.

But last night, as I stood at my old disgusting sink, staring at the wallpaper peeling off the wall, I realized it was 8:52pm. This is the first summer we're letting our boys come and go as they please. They can ride their bikes to the park, to a friend's house, or even to the store to buy popsicles with their own money. Every night after dinner, they take off and are expected home at 9pm. 

Before I started washing dishes, I cracked open the windows so I could hear them come up the driveway. And five minutes later, at 8:57pm, they did. Sweaty, laughing, a baseball bat sticking out of my oldest's backpack. 

And in that moment, I have never been more grateful for this ugly kitchen. I have never been more grateful that seven years ago, we bought the dumpiest house in our dream neighborhood, the one with tree-lined streets and watchful neighbors and two parks within biking distance. 

If everything is a trade-off, I'll choose my crappy kitchen again and again if it means my kids can have this kind of childhood.

(Let's be real, though: someday, I'd still love a pantry. 😜)