Friday, June 27, 2014

Coming Home

Our new bedroom window, looking out on the fruit trees in our backyard.

As most of you might know, we bought a house.

It was a house we came very close to missing; priced a bit over our budget, it didn't come through the automatic mailings from our realtor of properties coming on the market.  My mom, whom I had repeatedly told, "it's too much" when she would excitedly call me about cute houses she found (whose owners she almost always befriended, hoping it would convince them to sell us their house, and also because the woman flipping loves talking to people), found this one for us.  I at first blew her off but something nudged me to take a peek.  And then another.  And then, nervously, to show H (silly to be nervous--I think he might love it even more than I do).  And then to finally, FINALLY, call our realtor with the news.

This was the house.

It's funny...I didn't subscribe to the idea of just knowing a house was the right house while we were looking.  It seemed an impractical approach for such a big decision, but really, I didn't subscribe to it because none of the houses we had looked at were it.

We made our very best offer (a bit above asking) two days later and three weeks after had the keys.  Props to the team who made that happen for us, for real.

So we've been painting and tearing up carpet and having the floors refinished and dreaming about kitchen remodeling and buying special cat pheromone plug-ins to (hopefully) help the filthy babies with the move.  I was full of steam (tearing out three rooms of carpet and painting every single surface in that house--ceilings included--with my mama in the first week) for a good bit.  And now.  Now the quiet sweetness is settling in, knowing this is home we are going to.

Moving is a funny thing.  I have deeply loved this house that has kept us warm and safe for the past seven years.  It's the house where we have become who we are.  It's the house where I realized every wall needn't be a different color, where I proposed to H and planned our wedding, where two little obnoxious kitties decided they would allow us to be their people, where we've built friendships and prepared Sunday dinners, where we've fought and grown and learned and sighed and laughed and watched way too much fucking Netflix TV.  This house is in a neighborhood that has become exponentially better over the past seven years, so much so that I was at first convinced we needed to stay here to continue to be a part of what is happening (it's okay--it will happen without us and we will celebrate it all the same).  As excited and ready as I am to move to this new home, this new chapter, as excited as I am to notice what changes it carries into our lives, I leave our current home with the deepest, sweetest gratitude.

So we will hopefully be moved next week.  We're waiting on the floor refinishers to finish their work.  We've been starting to move some less important things over as we are able.  I started scrubbing cabinets in our current house today and will clean out the closets this weekend.  It is happening.

I have not made a secret of the fact that this year has been what I might generously call a "growing year."  It has been harder than I admitted even to myself, for fear admitting the difficulty was also admitting a small doubt of my ability to not be lessened by it.  As I neared my birthday on June 20th, before we knew of this house, I was ready to chalk the year to up to one that wasn't intended to bring joy but rather learning and introspection, hoping within that acceptance that my next year would be different.  And then the house came a bit more than a week before my birthday and I realized the year had started with a marriage and ended with a home--two hugely happy, long-awaited events that sandwiched some growth I don't think I'll fully comprehend for a good long while.

Not bad for year 28.


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