I’ve been told that sometimes there is a party in your house and you aren’t invited.
And what is even weirder about this situation, is the fact that you don’t know the people. But they will be hanging out for close to three hours. They might bring their family and their friends, but hopefully not their dog.
Sigh.
Today is a big day. One day closer, Lord willing, to the Granola family walking in obedience out of the house home that we have built and starting a new one.
And no . . . we don’t know where we are moving to . . . yet.
My mom and I have worked our butts off cleaning. (Thanks so much for all of your hard work, Mom. I seriously could not have gotten everything done without you.)
There hasn’t been a night that the Hottie and I have gone to bed before 11:30 PM due to preparing for the Inspector’s eyes. Hottie has tolerated my barking of orders, even when it meant doing something very trivial for my peace of mind near midnight. The precious man sat surrounded by what seemed like hundreds of mismatched socks last night, in search of one good match.
The whole idea of someone buying your house seems personal to me, and yet I have no clue who these people are beyond their signatures on the counteroffers. Do they want to know about us? Have they made up stories of us?
So I made them cookies and cut a bunch of fresh flowers for some eye candy. Hopefully it will hide all of my fermenting. And they might think we are pleasant people. I really just want them to feel comfortable in their future home. A place of peace . . .
Seriously, these people are walking into our lives – except for the minor detail that we won’t be living here with them. And for some bizarre reason I just really want them to like us.
I thought about writing a letter to them explaining about all sorts of things—like why the family room is painted a brownish color and that I accomplished that task while pregnant when Brian was in India; or how the large rock came to rest next to the deck with only inches to spare by the mere making of a few cookies for a construction crew; or how I first painted the boys’ room yellow to bring joy to my husband’s father when he visited us and later created a jungle for our miracle children; and where all of the flowers and trees came from—because literally every flower and tree has a story, was a gift, came from someone else's house, or I grew from seed; and all of the great birthday parties.
History.
Our life.
If only I could be a little fly on the wall today.
