I’ve not written in a while about what’s going on in my life. It’s not because I don’t have anything to say. Because I do. It’s just that, well, we’ve been busy.
Mr. B and I didn’t set out to house hunt. Rather, we saw a house we liked and decided to take a look at it. And, while we were in the neighborhood, we figured we’d check out a couple of other houses. No sense wasting our real estate agent’s time. After a very crazy night of looking at four or five houses, we fell in love with this house — the one we’d both ranked as our least favorite, based on the pictures and Zillow description. But once we set foot in the house, we knew it was our home.
I was headed out of town for business, so Mr. B had to do all of the offer-making dirty work while I was gone. And, by the time I came home, we had a signed offer — and a long to-do list. Visits. Inspections. Surveys. Appointments.
I’m told the process went really quickly, but the next four weeks seemed to drag on and on. Soon, though, we were signing on the dotted line (times 1,000), and the house was ours.
It’s been a very strange experience. We weren’t in our apartment before this very long — we’d just moved in October, the weekend before Penelope died. So, it never really felt like home, and it was full of sad memories. It was a place of limbo, I think we both knew that. I don’t think either of us knew what was next. I certainly don’t think we planned to buy a house.
In fact, I’d never wanted a house. Before Mr. B — well, before Penelope, really — I would have been happy being a renter for the rest of my life. Home ownership never really appealed to me. I didn’t want the mess or fuss or stress that came with it. Mr. B, on the other hand, wanted a house — projects (especially) included.
And, had we never had a tiny taste — a fleeting glimmer, really — of having a family, Mr. B never would have even gotten me slightly interested in a home. I would have come to home ownership kicking and screaming.
But then, I got pregnant. And I wanted to have a home where my kids could grow and make memories. I wanted a “home” that was ours. Like I had, when I was growing up (we never moved when I was a kid, and my parents still live in that house).
After Penelope died, that became even more important to me.
I wanted a place that would be ours. Where sad memories could live in the past, assigned forever to that temporary home, and we could carry happy memories in our hearts.
And, so, a month later, Mr. B and I are still settling into our house — still not quite believing it’s really ours. It’s bittersweet, yes. Because Penelope Joy isn’t here with us. But, also, it’s refreshing to have a blank slate. Where we can make our home what we want; where we can create new memories — always carrying our darling daughter in our hearts.