every June. Just one more year and then we'll be able to move. I really still believed it two years ago. Last year I laughed and then I cried. This year I watched my new daughter waddle from dandelion to dandelion and waited for the panic to come with the impending "why we still won't be moving to a bigger space" conversation. She walks and is starting to run now. Micah says, "Zoe walks fast, she doesn't run." I watch her waddle her way through a constellation of yellow. She bends down nose-to-nose with this harvest we didn't plan and grins. The puppy is right beside her. We didn't plan to put down roots here. We didn't plan to paint or garden or change the sixties light fixtures. We didn't plan to unpack those three boxes still stacked against the utility room wall. We planned to move on to something bigger and better. And when that didn't happen I spent years letting this small house stunt my hospitality and eat away at my contentment. I believed that large expanses of hardwood floor and flowerbeds would yield a sense of home, of having arrived, of being ready to call ourselves grown ups and embrace our community. Instead, each June the dandelions bloom and we don't move. But this year I discover to my surprise that the house has started growing. Where there were only three bedrooms I noticed this morning that there are eight long, strong arms and legs of brothers