I think I know what a small house is. One year my family of 4 lived in a one room house without plumbing. And some of the neighbors lived in smaller houses. We moved every year and sometimes we lived in spacious houses, other times in small apartments. But we always had enough room. (Although as teenagers, my sister and I might have wished for another wall between us sometimes.)
I was informed last week – 10 times no less – that I live in a small house. We have 1300 square feet upstairs and 1300 square feet in our finished basement. It is not a small house. It’s a big house. Yet the person looking at it kept saying it was such a small, cute house.
She was a designer. I concluded that most people in our area must value big. And bigger. In 1950 the average American home was less than 1,000 feet. In 2006 the average house was about the size of our house, 2300 square feet. The dream house must be bigger than that now. When given the choice between remodeling to fit changing needs or just buying a bigger house, most Americans must pick the bigger house. Since we live in a huge house (by my standards), I figured most of her clients must live in enormous houses.
I spend most of my evenings sitting on the hardwood floors in the kitchen playing with the kids and talking to Frank while he cooks. I want a comfier kitchen/dining room, not a bigger house. I want to continue to hang out close to Frank and the kids, not have a more comfortable place elsewhere. (I’ve got that too.) I have not figured out how a bigger house would add to our quality of life at all. (Luckily the designer seems to understand we want a cozy, warm space for us and friends to hang out.)
What flabbergasts me is the new definition of what a “small house” is. I have nothing against big houses. Or enormous houses. I just resent being told my big house is small. But I guess it’s all relative.