Amazing Maze of a Home

The place where I live is better than a maze. I say “better” because I and its inhabitants can still find our way around—with ease and comfort.

Ease and comfort. Those are twin words which define my home, or the home which I have continued to build over the years.

For me, building a home is a continuous process. And building the structure that makes a home can even be longer.

It all started when my husband and I were trying to find a house we could call our own in the early part of our marriage. Our elder son was five years old, and the younger one was just born.

The owners of the big house (high ceiling, three bedrooms, two spacious living rooms and a dining room which could double as a concert hall) that we were renting suddenly wanted it back, requesting us to vacate the place in three months. We bargained and tried to beg for extension but, no deal.

So we looked around. Our budget, however, was much too small to afford the places we liked. So we decided, upon the prodding of both our mothers, to look for a house we could purchase.

Budget and time were two ruthless arguments which won over our plans; and so we chose the place where we now live—a newly built suburban dwelling place with low ceiling, slightly bigger than Barbie’s house. It had three bedrooms, a teensy weensy living room and an even tinier dining room which was a step away from a cubbyhole masquerading as a kitchen.

But on a wide, airy corner lot it stood and the promise of ease and comfort lured us. We said, “It has endless possibilities!”

First off, it was a miracle that we were able to move in all our appliances and furniture which seemed to float in our earlier “house.”

That was when the urge to do home improvements hit us. A few months later, the many constructions begun. Not all at the same time—just one after another, as our savings would allow us.

Our initial act was to knock down a wall to join two bedrooms and to add a space to the cramped kitchen. It was euphoric. But euphoria dies down, especially since we still felt like sardines in a can. We then built a roof over the wide space connecting to our front door. Having a lanai was like owning a resort hotel—exhilarating! The wind could visit us freely even on a hot summer day.

Exhilaration withers, so we knocked down another wall and built a master’s bedroom at the back.

And a couple of years later, with the addition of a third son, we spent our savings to put up a second floor for our three boys. Without touching the main house, the carpenter (an architect was always way beyond our expense priorities) found a way to build a staircase to the boys’ room.

As they grew up, we needed an additional car which wouldn’t fit our one-car garage. So we built a more spacious garage which ate up some of our garden.

Now I can’t count how many times we have expanded our dollhouse, but what I remember is that during every construction, I had unbridled joy thinking of all the possibilities—a new coat of paint here and there, an additional wall on which to hang some art pieces, an exotic throw rug for the new area, a repaired stool and a sculpture in a corner, and new shelves to house the books we continue to acquire with alarming consistency as a family.

When I decided to stay home and write full time, there was a space that I thought would make a good office. More carpentry for shelves and drawers continued—and before long I really had a nook of my own!

I don’t know when these home improvements would stop, if they will stop at all. In my head, there is always a new possibility somewhere; and it will present itself anytime.

Ideally, one should move into a house with all the family’s needs in mind. But circumstances are not always ideal.

In my case, moving into a house was a case of necessity, if not panic. But looking back, and looking at the amazing maze of a home where my family and I live with ease and comfort, I would not have it any other way. With every home improvement came the excitement one can only experience in an adventure.

I guess that’s how stories with happy endings are written—they start out with a conflict that is resolved little by little, for as long as we all shall live.

(A reprint of my regular column “Happy Endings” in “Moms and Kids” magazine. If you are in similar straits, let me assure you that grace fills in the gaps between possibilities.)