A Tail From Behind

Ha ha. I've always wanted to use that title. And even though this isn't exactly the most appropriate post for it, well...Come on, I haven't posted in about 2 years, so let me title the post what I want to title it.

If I told you I had good news, would you believe me?

Of course you would. You believe everything I say.

(You really shouldn't, you know. It's going to get you into trouble one of these days.)

Well, the good news is we have finally found a house! We are moving out!! In a week!!!

Yikes.

So you want to know the story behind it all, right? (Well, maybe you don't but you can skip this post if you don't care to know.)

Right near the end of October, things got a bit out of control here at my mom's, and I called my mother-in-law to vent/cry/get-lots-of-sympathy, and she said, "You need to start looking at houses! Find one or two that you like, and then ask God to pay for it. But you need to start looking!"

Both Pete and I felt like she was right. We had set a timeline with my mom that we would be out by December, and that was/is coming up quickly. So we started looking. And surprising to say, we found NOTH-ING! We had been keeping an eye on the market so that we would be prepared for what we could afford, but mysteriously, the week we started looking, there was nothing in our price range in the areas we wanted. We looked for about 2 weeks, and found a couple of things that might work, which I sent over to our Realtor and asked him if he could get us in to see them. We have worked with this realtor before, and when I spoke with him on the phone at the beginning of this search, he seemed eager to help. But I heard not a single thing back from him. I checked back on the properties I had found, and they were all rented out within the week. I called and left messages with the realtor--Hey, can you show us some houses? We're really ready to move! Nothing. Feeling frustrated, I finally emailed him that if I didn't hear back from him, we would just go our own way. I never heard back from him.

We then tried another realtor who lives just across the street from us and who has told us many times that she would be glad to help us find a house. Nothing. We found a house that we really liked, and I decided to just call them directly since we couldn't get a hold of a realtor. Nothing. I called them and left 3 messages, Pete called and left a message, and we emailed twice. Or, well, okay, 4 times. And that was just the first week. We haven't heard anything from them still, although the property is still listed on MLS. (I think maybe they hate me at this point. "Hello, this is Sweetie, and I've been trying to reach you. I don't know if you've gotten all of my messages, but...")*

At this point, maybe you're starting to feel my frustration. I was asking God why He wanted us to start looking if He wasn't going to let us find. I broke down in tears to Pete one night, saying it was never going to happen. (Just in case you don't know, I can be a bit** of a drama queen. Remind me to tell you my story about how I felt near the end of Skylar's pregnancy sometime. It went a little something like this: "I'm never going to have this baby! I know you never hear of anyone being pregnant forever, but I will be, you just watch! I can tell! She's never going to come out!" You laugh, but it wasn't really that funny. For Pete.) Anyway...

He told me that we just hadn't found the right house yet, and let's not give up too soon. I tried again with the ads in the paper the next day, and I found a couple that looked promising. I called on one of them and was able to get a real person. She said she was at the property right then, and I could come over if I wanted. So I loaded the kids up and drove them over, and when we got out, the house looked...okay. Not in a great neighborhood, but it was in our price range, and I wasn't sure I wanted to be picky. Turns out there was mold under the kitchen and bathroom sinks, and by the time we left 20 minutes later, both the boys were wheezing audibly, and I sneezed the whole way home. Riley developed a fever later that afternoon, and I became completely convinced that we needed to look for a house that was built in 1995 or later and had no visible signs of water damage or leaky pipes. Pete and I talked about it that night and felt firmly settled on that point. We also redid our budget and firmly nailed down a price. Then we put in our search criteria...looked through about 500 houses, and found 2 that seemed like possibilities. Count them. TWO.

I called on the two the next day and was (magically) able to get a hold of the realtor listing one of them, and she agreed to show me both of them. She said she could be there in 15 minutes. This was a little bit of a change from how things had been going, so I started to get excited. Then I reminded myself what had happened the day before with the m.o.l.d., and told myself not to get my hopes up. Sure enough, the first one we looked at had mold under the kitchen sink. (BTW, Does everyone just leave their mold hanging out under the sink these days? Couldn't you at least bleach the area before I come over??) But they had nicely covered it up with a see-through piece of plastic, and you know, I think that helped.

That house was a no, then.

We went to the next one. It was right next to a greenbelt with a bike path and playground for the kids. I started to get excited. But when we went inside, the paint looked horrible! Patchy up the walls and all over the ceiling, noticeably different colors on the same wall. The fridge was broken, and there were two windows broken. If I could have seen past all of that, I liked the layout, and I liked the kitchen a lot. But the problems were still there, and I wasn't sure I could see past them. I gave Pete the run-down when he got home.

"I like it," he told me.

"I just got done telling you all the things I didn't like about it," I countered.

"I know, but I like it. I think you should apply for it tomorrow."

I sighed and stomped my feet (inwardly). Outwardly, I said, "Sure, honey, I'll get right on that."

The next day, I called the realtor and told her we wanted to apply. She told me I should get the application and all of this paperwork in to her by 11:00 that morning. It was 9:30. I told her it wasn't possible to gather all the necessary documents that quickly, but I would start working on things and get it to her in the next couple of days. (Can you sense my hesitation?) She pressured me to get it done sooner, and we all know how well I like to be pressured. That is, er, NOT at all. So I told her it was going to get done when it got done, fully expecting it to take a few days. Oddly enough, Pete was able to get his paystubs within about 10 minutes, and we were able to fax back and forth the copies of drivers licenses/signatures, etc. When we finished the last little bit, it was 2:30 pm. I washed my hands of it, expecting to not hear anything from them for a few days. At least. And the way our luck was going, maybe never.

Pete called me on the way home, and he said she had called him back. She had asked him what day we wanted to move in because she wanted to make sure she had all the repairs (including a new paint job, a fixed fridge, and a fixed window) done before we moved in. She left a message because he was working.

"Does that mean we're approved?" I asked, confused.

"I'm not sure," he was equally confused. "She didn't really say those exact words that we were approved, but it kind of sounded like it."

But kind of's and maybe's hadn't worked out so well for us in the past, so I wasn't holding my breath.

I called her back that evening, but she had already gone for the day. We would just have to wait until the next day to find out. The next day, the realtor called us and congratulated us on being approved. She asked if I knew we were approved, and I told her I hadn't been sure. She congratulated us again, and said she would start drawing up the paperwork for the lease.

And that was pretty much that. The kids and I just got back from dropping off the signed lease documents, and they said everything is in order for us to move in next Saturday. Next Saturday?! After a year and a half here, we see a property one day, and 9 days later, we're moving into it. I guess it just goes to show who really holds the Power. (Here's a hint. It's not me.) (Wait, what?! I thought I had the Power. Lame.)

I have fought depression, anger, numbness, and fear while we have lived here. It hasn't been pretty most of the time. You are probably all too aware of that. And yet, bing-bang-boom, we're moving out. The home--no, our home--is almost 1800 square feet, has 4 bedrooms, a living room and a family room (school room, anyone? Anyone? Just me?), and here's the best part: a soaking tub and a shower in the master bathroom. Whoa. Master bathroom? What's that? You mean I don't have to have toothpaste squeezed all over my counters EVERY day anymore? I don't have to move Leo and his rocket ship before I can take a shower? I don't have to kick aside 4 pairs of poopy underwear just to get to the toilet? (And plus, why are there 4 every day? I only have two kids that are potty-trained. I'm going to have to talk to Pete about that.)***

Oh man, it's going to be awesome. Just so so awesome. Come visit me sometime, and I'll show you my bathroom that won't have toothpaste all over it, and I'll show you my tub that doesn't have an inch of Joey-dirt in the bottom. Even though I cleaned the tub THIS MORNING.

Well, could we say I'm excited? Because I am. And yet here's the sobering thought. Now I have to pack all the j-u-n-k we've been cramming into this house for 17 months. In a week. And I need to go mop the kitchen floor. My sister is coming tomorrow, and since she doesn't have kids, she's not exactly used to that constant crunching sound every time you take a step. Well, I'm off to it. Wish me luck.

(Oh, and do you want to come and help me pack? That would be a big help.)

(No, seriously. I wasn't joking.)

I can't wait to write my first post from my new house! It will be entitled Where Is My Computer? I Think My New House Ate It...or something like that.

Signing off, take care, have a fabulous weekend, send me good-packing thoughts, and I'll write you again when I remove 8,000 boxes from the top of my head.

Sweetie

*I don't really call myself Sweetie on the phone. That would be sooooo weird. No, when I really want to get something done, I call myself by my given name. Mommy.

**A bit? Ahem. Oh, right, a *bit*.

***Sorry, hon, I couldn't resist. Please don't hurt me!!