Every day I peel myself out of bed around 6:30, rub my tired eyes, hop over the wooden baby gate and head downstairs for Benji’s bottle while he whimpers impatiently from his room. I always notice the feeling of my bare feet on our hardwoods. We moved in last December, but it still feels brand new to me. I walk down the hall to the kitchen and instantly recall the seasons of life that lead to this moment. Our first tiny apartment, moving in with my parents, our second apartment, moving back in with my parents. Owning our first home, knowing the various stages we struggled through to get here, feels so satisfying. I’m happy. Endlessly tired, but happy.