Doma venditor* neurosis...

I've been lax about posting this - partly because it's bittersweet and partly because a lot of me doesn't believe it yet.  Sort of like your first pregnancy - most of your brain knows that it ends with a child, but it still seems...not possible.  The household h is moving to Houston.

We sold the house this week.  That process was more character confirming than character revealing.  I rock at getting a house ready to sell.  While it's grueling, it's also clearly defined.  You work like a slave for a few weeks, then you're done.  Having a house on the market turns me into a neurotic fire-breathing mess.  Every day someone might come look at the house.  You have to keep it painfully clean (with four little boys) just in case.  The people who come might be on time and really interested, but they could also be thirty minutes early and not interested, or my personal favorite, two hours late and stay for five minutes.  This process could go on for months, or it could end today.  Ahhhhhh!!!  Just writing it down makes me want to self medicate with pizza and chocolate.

It was a beautiful thing this morning when a realtor called to request a showing.  Rand was napping.  The boys' beds were unmade.  The kitchen table was covered with breakfast dishes and books.  There were military bases set up in the living room and basement...

10:00 phone rings

Realtor:  Hi, this is ______ from _______ Realty.  I'd like to show your house today at 10:30.

Me:  We signed a contract last night, so it's no longer available.

It's telling that when we told the boys we sold the house, the first thing David said was, "Woo hoo.  Now we don't have keep the house so clean."  As he didn't participate much at all in the cleaning process, that let's you know who were the casualties of this house showing insanity.

*In which Summer probably slaughters the Latin language trying to come up with a creative title.