packing up the jalopy again

On Monday I receive one of those, oh-yeah-that’s-about-to-happen phone calls.  The G. family, who owns the home we currently housesit, has finally achieved their goal of selling the residence (sort of; they signed papers on a lease-to-own). Some families, mom would wait, talk to dad, get all the details of the move figured out, then have a family meeting and explain it to the kids in small words. But:

After I congratulate our landlords and hang up the phone, I walk into my kitchen. “I’ve got some news,” I tell the kids. “The G. family sold their house!”  A split second later and the kids break into sunny smiles.  “We’re going to move!” they say happily.  They start discussing options: definitely need a yard for the chickens.  A treehouse or potential for one. Aberdeen is a possibility, Hoquiam is preferred.

I admire my children, I really do.  I feel also a small bit of pride that Ralph and I have offered nothing but the best care we could give, and a lot of loving outpouring, to our time in the house (including glowing testimony to the few prospective clients who’ve trickled into the home). We have been relatively anxiety-free about the next move and that’s being reflected in our kids’ attitudes; good.

The last couple nights the family has driven here or there, looking at houses in the area.  This is an amusing enterprise if nothing else.  My mother is urging us to live rent- and utility-free in her large house while we complete the process of buying a home.  This is a generous offer of hers (as well as was her brainstorm to cash out my inheritance at this early date which would reduce her interest income per month drastically; another idea she had!  I have a pretty awesome mommy) and makes a lot of sense money-wise.  She has been spending more and more time at her boyfriend’s lately and I think more than anything she likes the idea of that huge house filled up.  Driving around looking at all the relatively high-priced dumps, and remembering what it was like to work with a property management entity (Aberdeen Realty, suck it!), and the sheen of excitement regarding moving dulls a little.

You know what I really, really want?  I want to live in some yurt on a little piece of property. Yeah, you heard me. Odds of husband’s enthusiastic agreement? 100 to No Fucking Thank You.

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