I looked at a house today. As in, stepped foot in a house I’ve been looking at with curiosity for months. Our budget says we could totally afford a house once we got into it, but GETTING INTO a house seems impossible and unreachable. At least for the foreseeable future. We have three children (almost 12, almost 4, and almost 1) and the prospect of saving for a big down payment any time soon is almost laughable, if it weren’t so depressing. It would take a miracle.
For now, I must be content to be curious.
Furthermore, I don’t know that this was THE house. It would need a lot of work to get it “just right,” but it’s got a HUGE yard with enormous shade trees, all the bedrooms we could possible fill and lots of little surprises to make it charming (like those vintage blue tile bathrooms! le sigh) And it was pretty quiet. I could imagine happy kids running up and down halls, decorating a room they didn’t have to share with older or younger siblings; tromping up and down stairs, Christmas trees for years to come in front of that gigantic bay window in the front, but I also almost immediately noticed the chipped paint EVERYWHERE, the original laminate (hey, I think I know somebody who could do something about that), big patches of bare ground where the St Augustine died in the shade of those enormous trees, and the most gawd-awful looking metal shed (did I say shed? I meant metal eyesore) that would immediately have to be torn down taking up a good 1/5th of the yard.
I’ll know the house and time is right when I get there. I’ll feel that zing in my ears and that tingle in my fingers. The house will speak to me.
Shush. I heard you laugh.
Soooo, it’s probably not THE house. But it was fun to look. And imagine. And feed a dream that, maybe, thanks to a lot of hard work (and maybe more than a little miracle) might come true. Someday.