Every time we drive by our old house the children cry. I’m always like, “You don’t understand, that house was too small! Our new house is better, stop whining!”
But the old house remains wrapped in some impenetrable nostalgia. I guess it’s because it was it’s very own Candyland. I pulled up the old listing the other day and the crying resumed all over again. I never really understood why the move was so traumatic for them. It was so obvious to me that it was time to go. I never even looked back. But then, THEN, while typing our address into Google, an old real estate listing for our current home popped up. And I put the two and two together.
This, this is why our children were crying. Crying their eyes out. Perhaps I was blinded by potential. It just needs a little elbow grease. But the children only saw a drug house where a lady raked the side off the garage with her car door while her husband chased her with a poker. Has that vibe to it.
I apparently missed that bit. I was like, “Look at this sweet house. Let’s get it, Honey.” And they never forgave me.
I may have cleaned it up. But apparently this is what is etched on their souls.
Nice kitchen though, eh? Actually, the residents stole it on their way out the back. For reals. Ripped it off the walls and ran. I think they grabbed the coordinating oak light fixture on the way. Thank goodness.
Comeon kids, it’s not that bad. You’re going to love it.
P.S. Jael, this is your room.