So, you find a house after looking at three dozen, with three bored children in tow, and an exasperated husband, who says repeatedly that he does not want to have to do any "work" on a house. You look through strangers' closets, and in the darkest corners of their basements, which turn out to be creepier than they should, and you see glimpses into many lives much like your own. You notice the tacky wallpaper in the entry, the stray suspicious hairs on the bathroom floors, and the numerous piles of dog excrement littering the backyard. You make notes about the sizes of the bathrooms and bedrooms, yards and garages. You attempt to mentally arrange your own furniture in rooms normally inhabited by floral fabric loving old ladies, and try to picture your own children coming in the front doors after school. But all too often, you just don't feel "it", the overwhelming need to make this house your home, the feeling that all will be well once you get your things unpacked...so you move on. And on. And on.
Each house becomes more laborious to look through, more exhausting in the realization that perhaps your perfect home does not exist in your perfect price range. And that as it is, your price range is probably a bit out of your price range, but you and your tired and sore husband are through with sloping floors, leaky roofs and drafty windows. You want newer, dammit, cleaner, fresher!
And then one August day, under a hot and prickly sun, with those three bored children whining from the backseat, you pull in front of a house. And from the front of the house, nothing could be written to the folks back home. But you walk inside, and within moments, are in true blue head over heels love. From the gazebo to the half round windows, and all in between, you have become smitten. There are candles in every room, and the scent of cookies, and even your cynical side who knows to ignore these cliches, is enamored with the gesture. You find yourself pleading not only with your husband, but with yourself and making promises, grandiose vows, that you will do whatever you must do to have. This. House.
You are making offers before you see the upstairs, sure that it must be as lovely as what you have seen, and later, once you have left said house, you will find it almost impossible to recall the interior of the rooms, as if you were in a doped fog when browsing through. You will make an offer too high, out of naivete and eagerness, and wait up breathlessly with the call. The call that names you as a homeowner- an owner of furnaces, deeds, property lines and square footages.
For the next three and a half years, you marvel at your home, and take pride in every dinner party, and family holiday. This is your home. You eat grilled ratatouille in the gazebo, and roast marshmallows in the firepit in the yard. You spend weeks, literally weeks, erecting a wooden swingset next to your husband's finely cultivated vegetable garden. You watch your son take his first steps, and your daughter begin kindergarten. You watch your other daughter have her first sleepover in the basement, and welcome twin boys, and lock yourself into your oasis-like bedroom, healing from casarean wounds, while nursing those twins, and never feel less than perfectly at home.
And then, you decide to sell it.
Once it is listed on the market, you begin to find the flaws. The why-didn't-I-notice-these marks and abrasions, the evidence of lives lived and the abuses of time and children. Cleaning becomes more than a chore, and the home you once considered your paradise, your beacon, is once again a house. You must distance yourself from the marks on the wall from the growth of your children, and the barely noticeable crayon mark through new paint, and the spot you were standing when you handed your husband the pregnancy test that would ultimately change the very core of your lives. You must move past the room that your daughter sobbed in, over petty suqabbles with friends, and later echoed with the laughter of your daughter and said friends. You must move past the room made for a princess, where countless bedtime stories had been read and reread, until No, David could be recited from memory. You must move past the room with the bunk bed that not only holds a sleeping Lego fanatic, but his precious imaginary friend (who apparently really likes macaroni and cheese).
You must move past the double cribs, only one of which is used for spooning twins, and the bed you spent your early married years in debt over. You must move past the dining room that once held celebrants for Easters, Thanksgivings, Birthdays, Christmases, and random Sundays. You must try not to notice the little remnants of pine needles from the last three years's trees, decorated lopsidedly and luminescently beautiful by eager, chubby hands. And you must not look in the basement, where the toys graduated from Elmo and Dora to XBoxes and synthesizers, and then back to Elmo once again.
Every time the phone does not ring with a prospective buyer, or another box is packed, your heart clenches a little more, until you are sure it will crack under the pressure. You wonder how it is someone could walk through the doors of number 19, and not feel the emanation of love, and warmth, and Halloween costumes, and piano recitals. And you spend every night, immersed in the quiet left behind by your long distance husband, and you breathe it in. You breathe it in like a drug, filling your lungs with this house. This. Home.
Each house becomes more laborious to look through, more exhausting in the realization that perhaps your perfect home does not exist in your perfect price range. And that as it is, your price range is probably a bit out of your price range, but you and your tired and sore husband are through with sloping floors, leaky roofs and drafty windows. You want newer, dammit, cleaner, fresher!
And then one August day, under a hot and prickly sun, with those three bored children whining from the backseat, you pull in front of a house. And from the front of the house, nothing could be written to the folks back home. But you walk inside, and within moments, are in true blue head over heels love. From the gazebo to the half round windows, and all in between, you have become smitten. There are candles in every room, and the scent of cookies, and even your cynical side who knows to ignore these cliches, is enamored with the gesture. You find yourself pleading not only with your husband, but with yourself and making promises, grandiose vows, that you will do whatever you must do to have. This. House.
You are making offers before you see the upstairs, sure that it must be as lovely as what you have seen, and later, once you have left said house, you will find it almost impossible to recall the interior of the rooms, as if you were in a doped fog when browsing through. You will make an offer too high, out of naivete and eagerness, and wait up breathlessly with the call. The call that names you as a homeowner- an owner of furnaces, deeds, property lines and square footages.
For the next three and a half years, you marvel at your home, and take pride in every dinner party, and family holiday. This is your home. You eat grilled ratatouille in the gazebo, and roast marshmallows in the firepit in the yard. You spend weeks, literally weeks, erecting a wooden swingset next to your husband's finely cultivated vegetable garden. You watch your son take his first steps, and your daughter begin kindergarten. You watch your other daughter have her first sleepover in the basement, and welcome twin boys, and lock yourself into your oasis-like bedroom, healing from casarean wounds, while nursing those twins, and never feel less than perfectly at home.
And then, you decide to sell it.
Once it is listed on the market, you begin to find the flaws. The why-didn't-I-notice-these marks and abrasions, the evidence of lives lived and the abuses of time and children. Cleaning becomes more than a chore, and the home you once considered your paradise, your beacon, is once again a house. You must distance yourself from the marks on the wall from the growth of your children, and the barely noticeable crayon mark through new paint, and the spot you were standing when you handed your husband the pregnancy test that would ultimately change the very core of your lives. You must move past the room that your daughter sobbed in, over petty suqabbles with friends, and later echoed with the laughter of your daughter and said friends. You must move past the room made for a princess, where countless bedtime stories had been read and reread, until No, David could be recited from memory. You must move past the room with the bunk bed that not only holds a sleeping Lego fanatic, but his precious imaginary friend (who apparently really likes macaroni and cheese).
You must move past the double cribs, only one of which is used for spooning twins, and the bed you spent your early married years in debt over. You must move past the dining room that once held celebrants for Easters, Thanksgivings, Birthdays, Christmases, and random Sundays. You must try not to notice the little remnants of pine needles from the last three years's trees, decorated lopsidedly and luminescently beautiful by eager, chubby hands. And you must not look in the basement, where the toys graduated from Elmo and Dora to XBoxes and synthesizers, and then back to Elmo once again.
Every time the phone does not ring with a prospective buyer, or another box is packed, your heart clenches a little more, until you are sure it will crack under the pressure. You wonder how it is someone could walk through the doors of number 19, and not feel the emanation of love, and warmth, and Halloween costumes, and piano recitals. And you spend every night, immersed in the quiet left behind by your long distance husband, and you breathe it in. You breathe it in like a drug, filling your lungs with this house. This. Home.
This is profound. And what excellent detail.
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