I have been hoping and praying for three years to sell our house, and now that the time has come, my heart is heavy.
This is the house where I was a newlywed, the house that accepted Nala when we adopted her from Animal Compassion, the one that’s watched me experience painful labor contractions twice, the house that welcomed two little boys swaddled in hospital blankets. These are the floors that have felt chubby knees crawl, small feet run, and big feet pace the night trying to calm crying children. In these walls we have laughed, played, hugged, danced, cried, lived.
We’ve experienced six Christmases here. Six times we have dragged a live Christmas tree through our house, decorated it, and enjoyed its warm glow. We have experienced five New Year’s days. Five times we have excitedly talked about what a new year will bring.
While living here, Brooks has moved from pack-n-play to crib to twin bed. He’s learned his ABCs, anticipated Santa, and explored every square inch of the yard. Case has grown from an immobile newborn to a smiling, wiggly, baby-on-the-go.
We have watched the tiny Bradford pears we planted six years ago grow into beautiful trees that happily decorate our yard. Our two dogs have gone from crazy pups to old, lazy piles of fur adorning our rugs.
I wonder if I can take our rose bushes with us? Can I take the exposed brick wall and built-in shelves so characteristic of old houses? Can I rip off the closet molding that holds the tick marks showing us how much Brooks has grown in almost four years?
I know that when we move into a larger house, I will be ecstatic. I will be so happy to get my closet out of Brooks’ room and our very social, nocturnally-active eight-month old baby into his own cute little bedroom and out of ours.
With that being said, however, there will be no shortage of tears shed when we drive away from this sweet little house, the one that has watched us grow from a young couple into a family, the one that will always and forever hold a very special place in my heart.