Last week I turned forty-one. It was a lovely birthday week, complete with lots of flowers, beautiful people I love, good food, and a solid old-fashioned or two. On Sunday, I came down with a cold and slept the day away on my couch, a rare and magical feat for me. I woke up confused, stuffy, but deeply grateful for the compassion of the people I have in my life. This year feels slightly different, as I embrace being solidly in my forties, I am feeling so content with who I am and what I have. My husband sent me a reel on Instagram about “burrow-core,” cottage core’s more lived-in and realistic sister style of home décor and living. It’s the perfect representation of our house and how I love to live. Molly Weasley and their home in Harry Potter is a great example. Another example is any tiny cartoon critter in clothes’ burrow home. The fact that someone named it, and so aptly for a girl whose nickname has been rabbit most of her life (wabbit to be precise), I am happy to lean into my burrow and the comfort it holds.
Cozy, comfy, and happy are all words my friends have used to describe my home. When they come over, most are quick to grab a blanket, find a cushion, and relax. My kitchen is always a gathering spot, and I pride myself on snacks, meals, and drinks that everyone can enjoy. My house could be called outdated or cramped by a certain section of the population, but I would probably find their homes a bit sterile. I need books, toys, kitsch knick-knacks, and crafting supplies filling the space in our little bubble because we live there. We don’t have extra rooms or even closets large enough to have perfection in our living spaces. We do have cleanliness and order, but not at the expense of my heart and mind.
You see, I am well informed of the abject horror in the world. The documented evil, the streaming screaming in echo chambers filled with stubborn minds and selfish hearts. I have taken in the true crime; the rabbit holes of conspiracy, slowly being proven, and the talk of true evil in the world. I don’t ignore it out of some privileged ignorance; I feel it acutely. So, in my home with its outdated countertops and drawn-on walls of my children’s rooms, I have tried to create safety and comfort with all my heart and energy. I strive to create a space that is the equivalent of “touching grass” in a world gone mad.
The difference in my heart and mind at forty-one isn’t that I just realized this is my style, it is that I am not ashamed one ounce, not one iota, for who I am and how I live. The big houses, the aesthetic refrigerators, the closets filled with the latest, greatest trends are lovely, but they are not for me. While I would love to upgrade to a walk-in closet and build on a second bathroom, I am so proud of our home and what it provides for our family and friends. I have in the past felt shame, or the sin of coveting what my neighbor has in the past. Words said to others have come back to me from the uninformed lips of a teenage boy who called our middle-class, safe neighborhood “the ghetto” behind the wheel of a brand-new car he didn’t work to buy. The whispers of other mothers that we “aren’t well off”.
The idea that if we went into debt for more space, more cars, then we could escape these judgments. But for what? Could I homeschool my kids and work part-time? Could I still clean my home in two hours on a Saturday afternoon and have time to fill it with the smell of a home-cooked meal? Would my friends still pile into my narrow den, grab a blanket and a drink, and fill the entire house with laughter? Would my husband be able to be an active participant in the kids’ lives? Or would we work more, struggle more, and argue just to have more?
I know the answer, and finally, after years of doubt, I simply adore my burrow. One day, we will move into a house with two toilets and a walk-in closet, but it won’t be the McMansion I used to dream about. The floors will still creak, and the bookshelves will still take up the walls. My friends will still call it cozy and come over for happy times and to commiserate in the dark ones. My burrow is safe. It is not better than or worse than; it is ours.
My hope and prayer for you, my reader, is that whatever home you have feels perfect for you. That it is a safe space for laughter and messes as well as tears and delicious meals. Most of all, that you find contentment in the burrow you build, even if it doesn’t have the charm of the Weasley’s or a spot a tiny cartoon mouse in pants and a shirt could take a nap.
It was a goal of mine in starting this blog for it to come with video content through YouTube, and short-form content on other apps. I want to share what knowledge and recipes I am proud of and possibly help other moms and ladies who may relate. The fear of someone judging my countertops or walls that need a coat of paint; that stays in the past. I am leaving it for the younger folks. My goal is to start showing my whole life in hopes that you will see the massive beauty in it because it is worth sharing, crowded shelves and all.