With far less fanfare than I had expected, we signed the documents that officially put our home up for sale. A few times during our meeting with the Realtor, I caught Stewart’s eye with a meaningful stare. Well, it was more like a glare. A glare that said “Aren’t you feeling as emotional about this as I am? Show some soul, man!”
Stewart has lived here for fifteen years; I moved in 8 years ago. Together we transformed it from a house dipped in beige paint and carpeting into a colorful, inviting (if a bit chaotic) home. We got married and had two children while living here. Of course I’m emotional about selling it, even if it is the right decision.
It’s been on the market for a week and a half. We got an offer on the fifth day. We got a second, better offer on the seventh day. We accepted that offer and are countering and counter-countering and paperwork and initials and scans and emails until my eyes are rolling back into my head. We’re looking for a new house. We’re checking into the schools. Somehow I am not insane. A year ago, it would be enough to drive me that way.
If you are surprised by this development, that’s my fault. I don’t expect you to read every word I publish on the internet. However, if you are interested in this story, I am chronicling it at Roost’s blog, A Bird’s Eye View, in my column “Diary of a Moving Mom” and often as the main feature. It’s like therapy. Therapy that pays me.
The story is far from over.
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