Movin' On Up

            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.