You know, I was just fine with living in our house. Yeah, it’s small, but hey, that’s less to clean. I’d like a more private, more lush yard, but gosh, we’re so close to everything (and by everything, I mean Target and Wegmans, of course). And, you know, there’s the pool. The POOL. It doesn’t matter that we won’t be able to afford to send our children to summer camp, or piano lessons, or feed them a square meal on days ending with “y” because most of their inheritance has been poured into a new pool liner, various squirrel-attacked covers, and the occasional SCUBA diver to dig glass shards out of the deep end (glass tables and concrete don’t mix, but you could’ve probably told us that already). We liked the light and the character of this house. That, and you get what you get and there’s no use doing anything but accepting what you got.
Until we brought Cian home from the hospital nine months ago, that is. That’s pretty much when our house shrank to the size of an earring gift box, trapping us all inside like the little square of cotton that’s crammed underneath those over-priced faux pearls you bought your mother for her birthday. Now? Well, now I notice everything I’d be more than happy to never encounter again:
Forget charm. I’m over “cute” and “quaint.” I’m ready for a doorbell that works, landscaping I don’t have to redo myself, and maybe, just possibly, enough bedrooms that I don’t have to hear my oldest daughter forcibly removing my younger one from her pillow/covers/hair every night. It’s not so much to ask. All we have to do is sell this house, and find the next. Easy-peasy.
Now. Anybody in the market for an affordable three-bedroom with an inground pool? I tell, you it is a lovely place. The groundhog family that lives under our deck is just the cutest bunch of garden pests you’ve ever seen. Honest, you’ll love it. Just don’t use that bathroom over there, okay? And please, don’t ask why.
You’ll find out soon enough.
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