It's official. The house is on the market. I can hardly believe it. I love this house, and thought we would be in it until I was too old to walk up the steps. What would it take for someone else to love it even more than me?
This week has been a flurry of activity - purging possessions, purging emotions - releasing everything that is no longer beneficial to us. Most of the week I've been happy about our decision to put the house on the market and become temporary nomads. I had a few moments today when I wondered if we were doing the right thing, and then I would walk out to the front porch and remember why we were moving and I knew that there was no turning back. It's time to rebuild. Time to start over.
Tonight we toasted our new beginning with some very good champagne, in the glasses from our wedding (has it really been almost 16 years?) Something old, something new - waiting on the borrowed and blue (anyone have a house on the lake they want to loan to us?)
I asked my son today what he was looking forward to about moving. He said our new house (which he and his dad have envisioned with a go-cart track, hockey rink, and giant tree house). Then he said he wanted to live in the White House, as long as he didn't have to be President. It was the kind of sweet banter that had disappeared from our lives last year, and it felt so good to have it back. He fell asleep cuddled on my lap on the porch, my favorite part of the house. I can't remember the last time he fell asleep on my lap. As I gazed up at the stars and finished my champagne, I knew we were off to a good start.