My husband and I are browsing real estate websites, beginning to talk about what kind of house we’d like to own. In the middle of the supposed end of a recession, with prices as low as we’ve ever seen them, this is our chance to snag a bargain. So why does a sick feeling of dread loom behind my dreams of a sunny den, the perfect patio, a large farm-style kitchen?

The last home we bought was our dream house. Built around 1910, it boasted a peaked roof, antique stained glass windows, hardwood floors, a lovely backyard full of bougainvillea and hibiscus and a three block walk to the Corpus Christi bayside. We painted the living room a soothing shade of raspberry, our den a warm umber; we created a lovely nursery full of light.

Then the unexpected: several months of parental illness including an out-of-town hospital stay, a lengthy hospitalization for me and the birth of a severely premature infant. By the time we finally brought our very small son home to his lovely nursery, his Grandfather was dead, our business cash flow was down and the medical bills had taken on a life of their own.

We fought for a year or so to maintain the status-quo but eventually we were forced to put our house on the market. It sold in the nick of time; we were saved the pain and humiliation of going through foreclosure as we watched our dream home pass into the hands of another young couple.

Having to so tangibly admit defeat at the closing was one of the worst moments of my life. As we signed our names and took our tiny little “profit” I felt that we had simultaneously signed away three years’ worth of carefully laid plans.

We were lucky people: we had a still-functional business, both of us were healthy and our child was doing miraculously well. Home is not a house; home is family. Intellectually, I knew that. But that one act – that simple transfer of real estate – cast a pall over me.

That was almost seven years ago. Despite a move to a new town and new careers for both of us, we have lived as renters ever since. Initially, we rented out of necessity; then, as we watched friends shell out thousands of dollars for new air conditioners, sewer line work, roofing and electrical problems, we grew financially smug. “Ha”, we told each other “You never own a house anyway, you just own a debt. And it costs a fortune when something breaks. ”

But something is missing. No matter how many art pieces we display, books we shelve and flowers we plant, something is missing.

I don’t think the missing piece is solely the freedom to paint over the emerald green cabinets that someone once thought would be just the thing for a master bathroom. I absolutely know we’re not missing the joy of dealing with plumbers, electricians, and roofers.

So why do my husband and I have this deep-seated urge to fork over several thousand dollars in exchange for the right to be indebted to a nameless, faceless mortgage company for years and years?

What drives this urge to have someplace for our family that is conceptually, if not in reality, “ours”? Is it a throwback to our cave dwelling ancestors, for whom safety from the beasts and from the elements was hard to obtain and of paramount importance? Is it hardwired within us, or is it something we’ve learned?

For one thing, we’ve been relentlessly taught that owning a home is the American Dream. This concept has been reinforced by watching our parents. It has been actively supported by public policy, from the home interest tax deduction to the creation of affordable Federal Housing Authority loans.

In suburban American culture, you haven’t become a bona fide grown-up unless and until you “own” your own home, particularly in an area like ours where there is affordable real estate.

The funds you pay into your community through property taxes support the school your child attends – if you own a home. Your car insurance gives you a discount – if you own a home. You don’t have to feign indifference to comments measuring your neighborhood’ s decline by toting up the number of rent houses – if you own a home.

A home is also one of the few opportunities for adults to be creative on a large scale and to openly express who we are.

Your home is a canvas that you can paint as you desire, literally. Orange is your favorite color? All right – design an orange kitchen; it’s your house. You prefer slate tile to carpet? It’s your house. You want to use a solar water heater? It’s your house. Always liked that rusted iron horse sculpture Uncle Bill made years ago? Put it in your front yard! It’s your house.

Our homes are an outward manifestation of us. It’s easier to make them over in the image we want to if we “own” them.

That American Dream of home-ownership is drilled into our subconscious. That dream is stronger in us than the natural caution born of prior failures.

So, fearful though I am, my family will look at hundreds of houses, cross our fingers when dealing with the banks, and eventually will re-join the ranks of people who rent from mortgage companies.

I hope that having a blue kitchen, a red front door, hardwood floors and a xeriscaped yard will be worth it.

My worried mind says it might not be; my cave-dweller heart can’t wait to sign the closing papers.

Laura Deurmyer | Contributor

Laura Deurmyer is a full-time mom, full-time HR professional and part-time blogger/ writer. Her work has appeared in the Dallas Morning News, the Corpus Christi Caller Times, Salon and Adopt-a-tude.

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