Crushed

On Saturday, it felt like things were finally going right for us. We rented an adorable little house in our neighborhood, walking distance to the school, for at least a month. We move in this coming Saturday. I can’t even express how much stress finding the house lifted off me. Just knowing we will have one place to live, where we can put things in closets and dressers, where I can make lunches for kids, where I can cook normal dinners, is such a relief.

On Sunday, I kept my cheerful mood as B, Ella and I braved 100+ degree weather to look at more houses. The three little kids had spent the night with B’s mother, but Ella had opted to stay with us and go house hunting.

We saw some good houses and some not-so-good houses. And then we saw THE house. It had dormer windows, a laundry room to die for, custom pecan cabinets throughout, and a great playroom for the kids. It was on more than an acre in the neighborhood I’ve dreamed of moving to. Ella and I did happy dances around the living room while B walked the property line.

After B dragged us out, we looked at two other houses, both of which were great, but neither of which compared to THE house.

That night B ran all the financials and figured out that our mortgage would essentially stay the same even though we were buying a house with more than double the square footage. I sent out an e-mail to friends asking them to say prayers or light candles or dance under the moon – whatever they believed in – that everything would work out with this house.

Yesterday afternoon, B delivered the bad news: the house was under contract to other buyers, and there were several others lined up in the wings. Negotiations had started before we even saw the place.

Sob.

I should have known better than to get all worked up about the house. Ours still isn’t on the market – end of the week says B – and we can’t even think about making an offer on a house until ours is under contract.

Double sob.

Even though I’m not at all religious, I am fairly superstitious, in some strange ways. So on the advice of several friends, I buried a statue-ette of St. Joseph of Arimethea upside-down in the garden. He is the patron saint of real estate because he gave up his family tomb for Jesus to be buried in. I had always thought he was a saint because he was Jesus’s dad. Whoops.

So, if you pray or light candles or dance under the moon, will you do it on our behalf once in a while to help us? I’d really appreciate it. And when we move, we’re having one heck of a house warming party, and you’re all invited.