I sometimes hate my house. Okay, a lot of times, I hate my house. I need new windows so I can put up those pretty two-inch blinds, and the hardwood floors need refinishing. The couch is in need of replacement, and the kitchen table has marks where baby girl has slammed her fork into it. There is also a streak of hot pink paint on the top and some yellow smeared around a chair. I can't "accessorize" anything because cute little baby girl will rip it off the table and shred it into a gazillion tiny pieces. Suffice to say, no home decorating magazines will be stopping by anytime soon.
My better half finally decided we would put the house on the market "just to see" what happens. Oh, I don't know...no one comes to see it EVER or the stars align to sell it and then we're homeless. With three kids. I'm not sure which will happen, but the sign is in the yard, so we'll see. We got a call around lunch today asking to show it at 5:30. Of course, it's the day he's sick and doesn't feel like moving. With a little luck and a lot of sprinting, we got the job done and it was actually shown twice. So, why do I feel so sad?
When I left at the crackass of dawn Monday, I looked back into the house as I was pulling the door closed. It didn't look like my house: Everything was clean and in its place. The dawn was just beginning, and faint rays of sunlight were peeking into the wall of windows on the front of the house. It smelled of lemony Mr. Clean and Murphy's Oil Soap. For a split second, I loved it. Maybe for longer than a split second.
If we sell it, it will be hard to leave. Growing up, we moved...a lot. It wasn't because of being in the military or job related. My parents just liked to move. I lived in three houses all within about 150 yards of one another. Just because. To me, it's no biggie. Truly, home is where your family and your heart are. It can be a cave if that's what floats yer boat. Somehow, though, this is a little more than that. This is the house we painted together, the house the kids and I moved into when Better Half and I got married, and the house we brought baby girl home to when she graced our world with her presence. I know why certain marks are on the walls, and I know exactly where the kids are in the house by the creeking of the floors. It's a big memory box of the past five years of our lives, and it'll be hard to leave here.
I have mixed emotions about moving to another house. I know it, too, would become our home, yet I know I will drive by here and my heart will tug. Maybe we should stay and just get those windows for my pretty blinds. I don't know the answer, so I choose to go with the old standby, "If it's meant to be, it'll be." And if it's horrible, I'll blame the Better Half. After all, it was his decision! :)
My better half finally decided we would put the house on the market "just to see" what happens. Oh, I don't know...no one comes to see it EVER or the stars align to sell it and then we're homeless. With three kids. I'm not sure which will happen, but the sign is in the yard, so we'll see. We got a call around lunch today asking to show it at 5:30. Of course, it's the day he's sick and doesn't feel like moving. With a little luck and a lot of sprinting, we got the job done and it was actually shown twice. So, why do I feel so sad?
When I left at the crackass of dawn Monday, I looked back into the house as I was pulling the door closed. It didn't look like my house: Everything was clean and in its place. The dawn was just beginning, and faint rays of sunlight were peeking into the wall of windows on the front of the house. It smelled of lemony Mr. Clean and Murphy's Oil Soap. For a split second, I loved it. Maybe for longer than a split second.
If we sell it, it will be hard to leave. Growing up, we moved...a lot. It wasn't because of being in the military or job related. My parents just liked to move. I lived in three houses all within about 150 yards of one another. Just because. To me, it's no biggie. Truly, home is where your family and your heart are. It can be a cave if that's what floats yer boat. Somehow, though, this is a little more than that. This is the house we painted together, the house the kids and I moved into when Better Half and I got married, and the house we brought baby girl home to when she graced our world with her presence. I know why certain marks are on the walls, and I know exactly where the kids are in the house by the creeking of the floors. It's a big memory box of the past five years of our lives, and it'll be hard to leave here.
I have mixed emotions about moving to another house. I know it, too, would become our home, yet I know I will drive by here and my heart will tug. Maybe we should stay and just get those windows for my pretty blinds. I don't know the answer, so I choose to go with the old standby, "If it's meant to be, it'll be." And if it's horrible, I'll blame the Better Half. After all, it was his decision! :)
Another good one with honest emotion and feelings to which many of us can relate. Good luck with - or not with- selling your house. It will all be good no matter what. You'll bloom wherever you are planted.
ReplyDeleteI must say, I totally adore (read: "condone") blaming "Better Half" when things go wrong! hee hee! I can totally understand, though. When a piece of real estate becomes far more than a geographical pin on a map, it's tough to walk away from that, even - or quite possibly DUE TO all the faults and nuances. On the other hand, the memories are quite simply intangible with the added convenience of being delectably portable! I wish you all the luck and good wishes no matter the outcome!
ReplyDelete