Stepping over babies, blankets, and bottles, my husband and I deemed our three-bedroom, two-bath starter house entirely too cramped. After the birth of our second child, we needed some breathing room, especially when my family came to visit. You couldn't walk to the kitchen without rubbing bellies with someone. You see, I'm from a Southern clan who would rather cuss in church than stay in a hotel. After all, it's more fun to pile up together. I've grown accustomed to the hum of air-mattress pumps and dodging the flotilla on the floor, but it took some adjustment for my husband, Doug.

Lest you think I'm nuts, let me explain. I have a huge family that's used to tight quarters. In today's real estate terms, the house I grew up in would be described as a three-bedroom, one-bath bungalow. Charming, right? Now, move in a family of eight. That's three kids to a bedroom and one tiny bathroom for all of us to share. Privacy? Forget about it.

With five sisters, my brother never stood a chance. His reprieve came, quite literally, by accident. A neighbor--rumored to have spent the morning baking her famous bourbon-soaked fruitcake--hopped into her car, hit the curb, and went airborne. The car sailed over the fence and settled right inside the screened porch. Dad used the insurance money to enclose the space so my brother could have his own bedroom. My sisters were furious! But their salvation would come soon enough.

As you can imagine in a household of six women, three of whom were hitting their teen years, time in the bathroom was a precious commodity. (Picture this: two in the tub, one on the potty, two brushing teeth, and a line outside the door.) Again, Dad sprang into action and added a master bath. He did all the work himself and picked out the most modern fixtures, including a harvest gold tub with double vanities to match. Heavenly. Only four people to a bath now.

I look back on those days and wonder how we survived it. But our little house must have seemed palatial compared to the ones my parents grew up in. My dad and his nine siblings shared a tiny shotgun house that my grandfather built in New Orleans. My mom grew up on a farm in rural Louisiana complete with an outhouse.

So I felt a little selfish when Doug and I closed on our big new house in Birmingham. Don't get me wrong; I love the spacious bedrooms and wouldn't trade our guest room for all the air mattresses in the world. Every once in a while, though, when I find myself home alone, I wonder what my kids will remember about the house they grew up in. Even though we don't live in close quarters, I hope they will look back and recall joyful memories of a tight-knit Southern family just as I do. Not long ago, my 6-year-old said, "Mama, I miss our little house." To which I replied, "You know what, son? Sometimes, I do too."

"Southern Journal: Home Sweet Home" is from the May 2006 issue of Southern Living.