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It’s the first place I lived when I moved to Manhattan.

It’s tiny, so I can keep only the things that I love the most.

It’s a 20 minute walk to work, 10 minutes to Central Park.

On summer mornings, the light shines across the floor just so.

In the winter, it’s warm and cozy, like a cocoon.

It’s where I was living when I married Spiceboy.

It’s where I was living when we got the puppy.

When I think of bringing the baby “home,” the only place I can imagine is our building, with the crazy lady in her black leggings hanging out on the front steps and the mean woman who looks just like her Chihuahua wandering up and down the street, and our neighbor from down the hall, who kind of sounds like Kermit the Frog when she talks.

I want us to take the baby over to First Avenue to buy flowers from the shop on the corner, or avocados from the Pervy Fruit Guy, or fresh jams from the 67th Street market. I want to wake up early and get coffees from our favorite coffee shop, then walk to Central Park and watch the ducks on the water.

That’s why we’re staying. For one more year, with one small change: We’re moving from the fourth floor to the second. It’s slightly larger—maybe 375 square feet instead of 350.

So that’s it: One couple. One dog. One baby. One 375 square foot apartment. One unfashionable Upper East Side neighborhood.

It may sound like sheer craziness to you.

But to me, it's home. And it's absolute perfection.