I was fine. Good, even. I was breathing, I was calm, I was in control.
I was on a speeding freight train, full speed ahead. I knew my destination, and I was calmly moving toward it. On the freight train. Full speed ahead.
The walls are washed and painted, the carpet is cleaned and repaired, the closets are cleaned out. The cabinets are cleaned out. The garage is cleaned out. The kids’ rooms are cleaned out. My craft room (aka, The War Zone) is cleaned out. Half of our storage unit has been filled. All the little repairs that we have put off for 5 years are now completed. The house is immaculate. For the past month, I have been busting my a** getting this house ready to sell. I am done. I am tired. But I’m ready to move forward.
Freight train. Moving ahead.
Two days before we were scheduled to meet with a realtor to list our house, Michael casually says, “You know, with all the delays going on, it looks like our new house isn’t going to be finished until December. I’m just going to throw an idea out there. What if we wait a year to sell?”
Freight train comes to a screeching halt. Mama gets whiplash.
And loses her voice from screaming, “WHAT?!?!?!? ARE YOU FREAKIN’ KIDDING ME?!?!?”
Now in hindsight, I can understand his logic. We wouldn’t have to put 90% of our belongings in storage and move into an apartment. (Over the summer. When all three kids are out of school. In 1000 square feet. Five of us. Together.) Moving from this house directly to the next house would certainly be easier. I get that.
(Even if we’d be trying to sell an empty house in December and not a nicely staged house in the real estate rush of spring.)
But let me be perfectly clear, dear husband o’mine: You are out of your ever-loving mind if you think I’m going to repeat all the wall washing and painting and repairing and clean-outing. It just about sent me over the edge during the past month, and I refuse to do it again. I. Will. Not.
Furthermore, transporting the boys and Meghan to their new schools when we still live in our old house is a logistical impossibility. It cannot happen. Michael suggested starting the year at the school here and then changing to the new school when we move. Which would be reasonable if our youngest son – who will start kindergarten in the fall – wasn’t a (crazy smart) space cadet circling his own orbit. Change = bad. Consistency = gooood.
So the school switcheroo? Not gonna happen.
But it all comes down to the fact that we were on this freight train of expectation and progress, and then the emergency brake was unexpectedly pulled.
(That’s so not cool.)
I’m not sure which was funnier: my dramatic reaction (and the threats to do unspeakable harm to the most sensitive areas of his anatomy) or his dumbfounded reaction to my reaction. He honestly had no clue why I was so upset.
Which I guess is understandable since he spends 10 hours a day at work while I bust my a** at home getting the house ready to sell.
In his defense, he was just trying to make my life easier. He saw how much pressure I was under and how stressed I was, and he thought that putting off the move for a while would give me time to catch my breath. I have to love him for that.
In his own words, “I’m not trying to frustrate you. I’m just stupid.”
Bless his heart.
So. No, we are not waiting to sell our house. After some constructive discussion, we kept our meeting with the realtor, and two blessed hours later (Lord have mercy, that man is long-winded!) we signed a listing agreement. I met with the “stager” this morning, we have painters coming to give us estimates on Monday morning, and once all the painting is done, we will “go active.”
(Another blog post for another day: painting over my brilliant playroom creation and my red family room. I am so sad that I can’t even talk about it yet. But it has to be done.)
And my dear, sweet husband – the one that I love deeply and adoringly – can keep all of his sensitive body parts.