It seems like a hundred years ago, but it was actually more like 15. A young couple with 90s hair and not a care in the world was looking for a house. They checked out three or four, stumbled on the ideal location, decided they could live with the house, and made an offer.
That was us, back in 1997. (Why is it that any date beginning with “19” truly does feel like a millennium ago?) Shopping for a house was like shopping for a new sweater. If it looked like it fit, you quickly tried it on, liked it, and moved toward the cash register.
It was a bit more complicated the second time. Not only were we joined by a snoopy two-year-old, who didn’t necessarily understand that he couldn’t help himself to whatever he found in the pantry of the house we were viewing, but I was hauling around the twenty-pound bowling ball that was Addison in my belly. My sense of urgency grew along with my tummy, until we again found a great location and a house we could live with and headed again to the cash register. Would have been nice to know the house had once been condemned due to a questionable foundation, but who has time for such details when a baby’s on the way? We moved in September 5, 2001, watched the horrors of 9/11 unfold on boxes from our otherwise desolate living room floor, and brought our new baby home a few weeks later.
Now we’re beginning our search for our third house, and everything’s changed. Again, the sweater analogy is helpful. Picture a harried mother and her four children packed into the Kohl’s dressing room. A couple kids are griping about how bored they are, a couple others are punching each other, mom is sweating, sweaters are flying across the room, buttons popping off. The store should just be thankful if they make it out without leaving a trail of blood behind, nevermind the mess.
And so it was, after we visited the first house this time around, four kids in tow, our realtor ended up getting an angry call about the beds being messed up with a couple of little-girl coats left behind. But the pets were all alive, right? C’mon, people. Cut us some slack.
The bigger deal is helping the kids not become too emotionally attached to the houses. No wait, the bigger deal is ME not getting too emotionally attached. And at this point, 20 months into living with no bathtub, I can even get attached to the 1960s house with the pink tub and the orange shag carpet. The kids actually got into a fight at that house over who got which room, that’s how easily we can see ourselves somewhere else.
Patience, patience. Not my strong suit when trying on sweaters or houses. But as this might be the house out of which they haul my dead body in 45 years, it’s a quality I’ll need in great measure during this pursuit.
