Help Me Dorothy

As many, if not most of you know, I don't live in my own home. I live in someone else's home, and by that, I don't mean that I am renting a house. I actually live in SOMEONE ELSE'S home. My sister in law and her husband got transferred to Shreveport for a year, so we moved into her house. With her furniture, and her dishes, and her pictures, and her knick-knacks.

And now we are doing some remodeling in her house, and at the same time, trying to blend our things (our furniture . . . just a small amount of it, our pictures, our knick-knacks, our dishes) in with her things.

It's a weird feeling. I don't even know how to describe it really. I sort of liken it to that TV show where the entire family moves into someone else's house and pretends to be them. Only I'm not pretending to be them. Whatever. I can't explain it.

Because I am a woman, I want . . . no . . . I NEED to nest. I need to settle in. I need to make this house my home. A place for all of my family to come and feel comfortable. A place for my sons to come to and think, "yep, this is home." But I feel like I am doing it in another bird's nest. And I can't quite get everything where I want it, because I'm afraid if I move stuff around, then the nest might fall apart. Does that make sense at all?

All that to say, I hope that someday my house in Georgia will sell, and all this will end. Until then, I guess I'll just keep trying to find home. If only I had some ruby slippers.