We were 23-years-old when we
purchased our first house. Reasonably, 23-year-olds
should not be allowed to make decisions that involve tens of thousands of
dollars as many 23-years-olds believe they know so much more than they actually
know about life.
We, of course, had our life completely
planned and were certain that these plans would proceed without a hitch. We bought our house based on three important
criteria: 1) It was located in our hometown.
2) It was over 100-years-old, full of gumwood trim, hardwood floors, and
leaded glass. Charming! 3) It had three bedrooms, one for us and one
for each of the two children we, according to our life plan, were scheduled to
procreate at ages 28 and 30 respectively.
Fast-forward ten years: We, in fact,
did have two children. Our son arrived
right on schedule, a few months after we turned 28. Baby number two, our darling daughter,
arrived, as expected, when I was 30. Baby number three…oops? Wait?
Baby number three? Yup. Baby number three arrived when we were 33,
and her arrival forced us to move our 5-year-old son into a room with our
3-year-old daughter. Not so bad,
right? Lots of siblings share
rooms. It would teach them to
compromise, to be selfless. Well, that’s
a steaming pile of BS.
It was this experiment in insanity
that first sparked the unquenchable desire for more space, a bigger house.
Sharing a room taught my children
ingenuity, the ingenuity to come up with new and interesting ways to torture
each other and, in the process, their parents.
They fought about every little thing, purposefully pestering each
other. At bedtime, my daughter would
threaten her brother into getting out of bed to do her will, ordering him to
fetch her water or to call mom and dad upstairs for extra kisses. In this way, she would get what she desired,
but he would take the fall for being out of bed after “curfew”. If he didn’t comply with her requests, she
would sing just loudly enough to keep him from falling to sleep, but just
quietly enough to prevent us from hearing her.
She will be a great addition to the CIA’s enhanced interrogation
unit.
Despite their whining and griping
and complaining and bedtime antics, we felt blessed to have a home that kept us
warm and safe. I felt guilty for wanting
more. We already had so much more than
so many others. Until, that is, the
house didn’t feel quite as safe anymore.
Despite my hubby and I working our asses
off to keep our house running, we couldn’t stay ahead of the tasks it
entailed. The plumbing was slowly
disintegrating, spilling water through the ceiling of our kitchen each time we
gave our kids a bath. We briefly
contemplated bathing them outside in the kiddie pool, but thought it might be
an unreasonable plan as we live in upstate New York, and winters tend to get
chilly here.
The basement stairs were crumbling,
making it unsafe to carry the overwhelming loads of laundry that a family of
five produces up and down to be washed.
I would say a little prayer each time I had to venture into the laundry
room: “Dear God, please allow me to safely make my way on these stairs as it is
essential that I have clean panties to wear to work tomorrow. Amen.”
Our two big mutts, who had once reigned
as prince and princess of the house, had been relegated to living on the porch. The shedding, the muddy paws, the tendency to
chew on the beautiful gumwood meant that they were a burden the house couldn’t
carry. They were still cared for and fed
and exercised, but they were separate from our family. I have a vivid memory of my 2-year-old
daughter standing on a kitchen chair, peering into the porch through the door,
waving excitedly at the dogs, as if she were at the polar bear exhibit at the
zoo. “Mama! Look Mama! Doggies. Hi doggies!”
Our postage stamp of a backyard wasn’t
much use to our kids because it clearly territorially marked by the dogs. We couldn’t let the kids play outside without
first doing an extensive poo check or run the real risk of them rolling around
in filth. The kids weren’t all that interested in playing in the backyard
anyways. Turns out a yard full of dog-dug holes and pee-burnt grass isn’t that
appealing a play area.
Our living room was overrun with Legos
and Matchbox cars and board books and Barbie dolls and baby swings. There was no place in the house that felt
open. Every room was cramped. Eventually, we got rid of our beautiful oak
table, the cabinet filled with my grandmother’s lovely china, and the buffet we
had once covered in appetizers and bottles of wine when guests came for game nights,
turning our dining room into a play room.
When my son saw the transformation for the first time, he raised his
arms in a gesture of victory and screamed, “YESSSSSS!!!!!” I, on the other hand, posted on Facebook a
picture of his triumphant moment captioned, “Our dining room is gone. We’ll
have you over for dinner in 2023.”
Worst of all was the mess. Although it felt as if we did nothing but chores,
the house was never clean enough. There
wasn’t any room to move, let alone to clean.
I couldn’t effectively dust under the bed or the couch, because there
was no room to move the bed or the couch.
The best I could manage was to lay flat on my stomach, desperately
waving the Swiffer mop around, hoping I was catching the dust bunnies and stray
socks.
The once beautifully painted walls were
now stained with sippy cup spray and flecks of spaghetti sauce. The once bright and shiny ceramic tiles in
the kitchen were constantly covered in muddy footprints and random food
smears. Ahhhhh…the naiveté of choosing
white tiles for a kitchen floor. I look
back with amused scorn at my pre-mommy self.
I felt embarrassed of the home I kept.
The first word out of my mouth when we
toured our new home was, “Shit!” It was
spacious, had bedrooms for each of our three children. There was a play room and a double yard with
a humongous Beech tree perfect for climbing and playing beneath. There was a kennel for the dogs. and we would
have a place other than the basement for our dining room furniture to
occupy. There were TWO bathrooms. TWO!!!!!
The washer and dryer were on the first floor. I reacted with “Shit!” because we hadn’t been
planning a move so soon. The “Shit!” was
because I was in love with the life I could envision my family living in this
house.
Since moving into our ‘forever home,’ I
haven’t had any regrets. I am well aware
that the paint will stain, that, eventually, a pipe will burst or the roof will
need replacing. I am also aware that we are a happier family now that we have
room to spread out, space to move and play.
And, surprisingly, it is easier to keep this house neat as I am able to
freely move furniture and have a place for everything and everything in its
place.
We had contemplated, hemmed and hawed, perseverated,
and flip-flopped on the idea of selling our “starter” house, and all it took
was that “Shit!” to push us into happiness.
