Except when it isn't.
Like when I'm digging through the one closet in the whole downstairs that serves as a closet for my clothes, linens, storage, and present hiding or when the one bathroom is being waited on by some one who is always late for work and is getting later or when I'm trying to find the elusive outlet in our bedroom and it involves moving furniture and getting into a dust bunny nest.
Then I find my self muttering hateful, hurtful things about our house.
And that's not fair to this old lovely house. I knew it only had one closet downstairs. I knew it only had one bathroom. I knew it only had one outlet in the master bedroom. But it had hardwood floors, and beautiful molding, and awesome double glass doors, and three bedrooms and a big yard and I loved it.
I walked into this house with my eyes wide open, and while they may have been covered with rose colored glasses, this house is still a very, very , very fine house.
It is ours, warts and all, and it fits our family perfectly. It's a snug fit right now with two teenagers, all their friends, three dogs, and way too many cars and motorcycles, but it will be too roomy before I am ready.
The next time I am tempted to say mean things as I struggle to get the vacuum out of the closet, I will instead think about all the reasons this old house is so right. I will be thankful for the roof that holds up to snow and rain and bees and bats, for the spacious upstairs rooms with walk in closets, for a yard big enough for three dogs, a veggie garden, and a patio, for a driveway that holds 3 cars and one tent trailer, for a carport that shelters the guys as they work on their truck project, for the hot water tank that gives 3 hot showers and one luke warm one on a Sunday morning, and for a porch that is perfect for sitting.
Our house is a very, very, very fine house indeed.