It's been a while since I dreamed about something. Not like I'm dreaming of a white Christmas or I'm dreaming of that first beer after having this baby, but like...a big dream. The kind that scares you.

Jeremy and I both remember the first time we rolled up to 497. Actually, we drove past it. It was a late summer evening, the air smelled sweet, and we were early for our appointment with the landlords to tour the house. Carefully watching for the correct house number, we craned our necks as we slid right past it (it comes up quick, and is nearly hidden by a tall hedge), but I distinctly remember spotting the front of the house and yelling, "Oh my God...NO WAY!!"

The mossy gray/green paint. The original wood planked door. The stone steps. The trellis beside it crawling with wild roses. The classic cape lantern. It was already more than my antique house-adoring heart could stand. Clearly, we must have the wrong house.

But we didn't. It was the right house, and for nearly an hour (us being early turned into the landlords being late), Jeremy and I and Abigail, who was 18 months old, walked around the yard and dreamed. Dreamed about living in that perfect little house. Peeked in the windows. Walked around it again and again. Abby ran around the yard in her pajamas in such joy, which I think is what really made us want the house. There was a yard to run around in, period. Grass! Flowers! Air! A very happy little girl!

Then the landlords arrived, and we toured the house. I kid you not, it was like someone (now I know, it must have been God) had lifted the lid to my brain, eavesdropped on all my wishes in creating "the perfect home", and handed it all to me in one fell swoop. Wood floors...beam ceilings...lots of windows...a stone fireplace...two stories...just enough bedrooms. Was this for real? No, seriously.

It was for real, and we moved in a month later. We've been living in that "perfect" house for almost a year now, and every once in a while Jeremy and I will look at one another and say, "Remember that night? This place was purely magical."

We have to do that sometimes. Because back then, this house was a symbol. It represented a fresh start, a dream, a promise of good things. And I think we expected too much from it. Don't get me wrong, it has not disappointed us. But even though moving here has blessed us in so many ways, it is just a house. There is still sadness here, there is still hardship and exhaustion. And the blessings actually come from God, not the house.

Still.

We have to remember the magic, because it is there, every day. It's in the dew on the grass every morning and the nostalgic chirp of a hundred unseen crickets. It's in the wildflowers you didn't know existed until they bloom overnight. It's in all the little critters, the chipmunks, the bunnies, the mice that scurry about the yard, giving us small, quick glimpses of their otherwise secret lives. The magic is there, if we open our eyes to it. Abigail does, and it's the most delightful thing to watch. So often I look at her chasing the birds or blowing milkweed or crunching on the snow peas she just randomly picked from the garden, and I'll think to myself, "Wow...she gets it.". And that is what I dream about for my girls (along with other things): that they grow up slowly, and enjoy childhood as it was meant to be. That they are awakened to all the magic around them, and that they not lose it but take it with them into adulthood.

Life can be a fairy tale. I believe it was supposed to be that way. All we have to do is open our eyes and keep the dream alive.

Part Two coming up...