We met with a real estate agent today. Yes, today. Yes, we’re still sick. Yes, I was cleaning yesterday while hacking up one lung and sneezing another. I know. Insane.
The agent walked through our house with a computer, jotting down notes, peeking into our closets. I held my breath, apologized for the laundry, and showed off the fireplace mantle my husband built. She laughed and told me to stop being nervous, and then she told us that we really didn’t need to change anything in the house before listing. You know what that means? The blue walls are staying, people. That happy sea of blue in our dining room, and the red brick wall in the family room and the deep purple of the playroom, all staying. Because, she said. She loves our house. And she loves that it’s not beige.
I know. I can’t believe it either.
I gently told Saoirse that we’re probably going to start looking for a new place to live. She looked around, fearful, and told me that she didn’t want to move. That she loves our house. I told her that we love it, too, but Daddy would like a big enough master closet that he didn’t have to keep his dress clothes in her room. Okay, I didn’t tell her that last part, but that’s really the only reason, sort of, we’re thinking about moving.
You think I want to give up that pool?
No. No, I don’t.
The agent wants us to open the pool by May if we haven’t sold yet. She wants the outside furniture on display in April. She’s coming back in a week for a final meeting before we list.
This is really happening.
I love this house. I love the ease of its size, and the short staircases. I love the light, all the light, that shines into this place in the daytime. I love it because this is where we brought our two daughters after they were born, and that room is where I nursed them every single day for a year each. I love that I stopped needing a monitor early because our rooms were so close I can hear every noise, cough, that I can be downstairs and know they’re jumping up and down on the mattress above me. That mark in the wall is from Saoirse learning how to walk, and that smudge of crayon is from Quinn trying to write like Mama.
David says I have seller’s and buyer’s remorse. He’s right. I almost cried when I traded in my little red Jetta for the big SUV. It’s really that I just don’t like transitions. They make me itchy. The decision is made, so let’s just do it, already. Get this house sold and find me the best dream house we can get without me needing to start peddling my old pots and pans on the sidewalk for spare change. Oh, but please make sure that house has “character” and charm and light. Let us find something that makes me feel like home when I walk in. But only if it has a two-car garage, of course.
We’ve been talking about looking for a place in the cute town beside us, versus a subdivision on the outskirts. We don’t want a new build, but we don’t want something that needs a lot of work. We want a community, but not a neighbor who stands out back in the summer trying to stare down the hill into our bathroom window (Yes, Mr. P., I’m looking at you).
You understand, those of you who’ve been to our house. Our home is like its own person. She’s tough, and has some wisdom that comes with age, and, yes, if you look closely, you’ll see some wrinkles, but dagnabit, she does a good job with her makeup. She’s just bursting at the seams a little, so it’s time to let her hang out with a smaller family.
So we’ll see how this goes. The market is slow, so I may be sitting here, itchy, for quite some time. Maybe I’ll just look at the pool while I wait.
I’m really going to miss that pool.
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