After months and months of trying, we’re finally moving! Yaaaaaaaaaaaay! Weirdly enough, just when we were getting ready to call it quits and pack everything in until Spring, we ended up selling our house and buying one on the very same day.
Almost like it was meant to be, because we love the new house so much more than the ones we almost bought before multiple deals fell through for various reasons.
I’ve been nervous about making an official announcement because that’s just begging for something to go wrong. So many things can go wrong. The sellers could drop out or your buyers could have problems selling their own house or there could be failure to negotiate repairs on either side… it’s an elaborate set of dominoes that could collapse if one tiny domino even thinks about blinking.
Something could still go wrong, but it’s only a week or two away: MOVING DAY!
Turns out we’re not moving to downtown Sacramento after all, even after all my big talk about the city vs. the suburbs. Sacramento prices have skyrocketed in the past couple of years and we just couldn’t bring ourselves to squeeze into a tiny house without a yard when, for less money, we could grab a beautiful place on a third of an acre just outside the city.
(Yes, I realize a third of an acre isn’t super impressive for most of the country, but it’s amazing to Californians.)
We even have a pool now… A POOL! (One we need to get gated as soon as possible because our toddlers have already tried to “accidentally” fall into it whenever we’re visiting the house.)
The kids are beyond thrilled with the place, especially the part about having a pool. Brontë likes to give tours whenever someone visits and has already demanded a purple room. She keeps demanding reassurances that we’re bringing all our stuff, since “there’s no furniture, mama. You know that, right?”
And I’m turning around on my whole anti-suburban mentality. We’re moving to an artsy enclave outside the city that has an extremely different vibe than where we’ve been living. Much more friendly and laid-back–it’s the kind of place that has elaborate murals of alligators eating Volkswagons next to quirky coffee shops as chicken roam the patios.
Yes, chickens. Chickens have the run of this town. They wander around the parks and walk next to you along the sidewalks. Some people think they’re a nuisance but I think they’re pretty cool. So do the girls, who keep running around in circles trying to pet the chickens while the chickens say, “Whoa, whoa, WHOA… we’re evolved DINOSAURS, not one of your golden-retrieving lapdogs!” I keep picturing them in horn-rimmed spectacles.
I’m thinking it wasn’t so much the suburbs to blame as the kind of suburb we lived in. Chicken Town is much friendlier. We’ve already been invited to more events and had more positive interactions than in the past four years outside the city.
And all we’ve got to do now is cram four years of family life into a billion boxes and somehow get them to Chicken Town. Also, not let this place blow up before we jump in the car and drive away, squealing our tires and yelling “IT’S YOUR PROBLEM NOW, SUCKAS!”
Not that there’s anything wrong with our house, of course, but we’re struggling to keep it that way for another ten days. Raccoons keep pulling up the sod at night to fish for worms and we keep rolling everything back into place in the morning. We keep grabbing pens out of our kids’ hands before they decide wall murals would really spruce the place up. We keep trying to convince our crazy dog Douglas it would NOT be a brave and impressive feat to eat the porch and he should quit trying
Just ten more days…