I keep waiting for that feeling in my stomach. The one that tells me I made a horrible mistake moving into this lovely little house with the husband I left two years ago.

But so far nothing.

So far, so good.

So far, just boxes, boxes and more boxes.

I swear these things multiply in the night while I'm sleeping because every time I unpack one, another pops up full in its place. I could open a children's resale shop with all the toys and kids clothes piled up in my office.

It's like I'm trying to self sabotage. Before moving in I made a very big deal about how my office would by my space and don't come-a-knocking. It would not multi-task as anything but an occasional guest room, for the occasional out-of-town visitor. It would not be a thru-way, kitchen nook, or, well, anything but mine.

"So," Sam said, "What you want is to re-create your apartment, in miniature, in your office?"

"Exactly," I said. "I want the futon, my desk and the good living room rug. Maybe a dorm fridge."

Then we move in and the first thing I do is deem my don't-come-a-knocking room command central, line the walls with more than a dozen boxes of toys and games and tiny little clothes.

So far, the only person in this house who's not respecting my space and my very clear request is ME.

The only couch I can actually see is pink and 10-inches long and perfect if you are a Groovy Girl or the little plastic horse sleeping on it. The real one is buried under stuff.

OMG. I have recreated my apartment in this room.

Feels just like home here, and so far my stomach feels fine.