We have a house!
Sort of. Not really. Maybe by tonight?
I don’t know.
We first saw it a week and a half ago—this cosy brown and brick tri-level on a quiet street. Hardwood floors, 3 bedrooms, living room on the main floor and a family room with a fireplace downstairs, a laundry room, an amazing back yard, a crawl space (kidding. I mean, there is a crawl space, but that wasn’t a selling point for me. That was more of a “wow, that’s creepy” point).
Of course, it’s also a foreclosure, so that means no appliances, God only knows about the roof or furnace, the basement carpet is trashed (like lumberjacks in muddy boots frolicked around the perimeter for several hours), and the upstairs bathroom is tricked out in some pretty awful pink and tan tiles.
But we offered, they counter-offered, and if we can get 3% back in cash we said we’d take it. The realtor advised us to ask for the 3% back. I didn’t know that was a thing, but apparently it’s fairly common, especially with foreclosures where the house comes totally as-is… and 3% of the house’s value would nicely cover the appliances we need. Maybe see us on the road to a new carpet downstairs.
Though I’m still not exactly sure what we’ll do about the furnace and roof if they need immediate attention. And someday soon I’ll be itching to rip out those pink tiles. And I’m pretty sure the mere fact of July will motivate us to start saving for central air.
That’s home ownership for you. And we don’t even own it yet.
I worried it might be sort of poor timing to try to buy a house while I’m pregnant, but it actually has some surprise advantages. I tend to be an anxiety-prone planner, and all this waiting around and maybe-they-accept-maybe-they-won’t would drive me INSANE were it not for the emotional buffering of pregnancy. Maybe that isn’t normal. I hear a lot of women talk about the crazy hormonal roller coaster of pregnancy, but I think I skipped that ride somehow. I mean, I might get misty-eyed during a commercial and the physical side effects WILL occasionally lead me to cranksville, but the drama stuff is less engaging these days. I have been on fewer crusades. I can’t figure out why people don’t just make whatever choice they want to make instead of wasting time trying to justify it to the world. Certain people and certain situations still annoy me, but I’m willing to ignore them for the most part.
I would much rather press the flat of my fingers gently into my belly and feel for those little fishy movements.
Although Carl casts a dim eye on such proceedings. What are you doing? You’ll wake the baby up, he says. Don’t prod the baby.
Sometimes I stop. Mostly I just wait until he stops looking.
My OB told me yesterday that I have an anterior placenta, which means it’s lying directly across the front of my belly and muffling all the kicks and flutters most women would already be feeling at this stage. Also, if we’re going to be honest, I have an inch of fat. That doesn’t help either.
So it really is necessary to press down in order to feel anything. On Sunday the baby rolled over, and I felt the ridge of it’s back—about the size and curve of a baseball—roll past my hand like a sea monster. The day before I got a nice kick against my palm by a foot that couldn’t be more than an inch long.
Probably the first time in one’s life being kicked is cause for feelings of deep love and devotion.
This little mango-sized human being might be enveloped inside of me, but I have to tell you the fact of it’s existence is also enveloping us. When we left the OB’s office yesterday, Carl said it was funny to realize how little the house stuff mattered after getting to see our baby’s mouth making little sucking movements, practicing swallowing the amniotic fluid. The house will work out if it’s meant to be, right? In the mean time we smile at each other and the sonogram pictures and my protruding mid-section and say inane, utterly nonwitty things that make us melt.
I mean, how could you not?
Sometimes life is indescribably sweet.