A few weeks ago we began to seriously consider moving back into our house. And even though there were downsides, like that it was “far” from everything, I kind of started to get my hopes up.
I was most especially excited because as we started to look back over the floor plan, the realization that two giant living/family spaces was kind of unnecessary, we agreed that the “extra” one could be the school and play room.
And let me tell you, when you have piles of books, workbooks, educational toys, curriculum, dry-erase activity books and boards…
…like this everywhere, taking over what little space you can find in this two bedroom apartment that is shared by five, sometimes six, humans, a whole room that can be dedicated to this stuff sounds really appealing.
And the clock is ticking on our lease and making a decision.
And then last night I saw a too-good-to-be-true rental (bigger than our house for less than what we are charging our tenants) in the same neighborhood and decided to drive out there. And I called on the rental and it was too-good-to-be-true. And I drove by our house because I enjoy torturing myself.
And tonight the decision is made. A decision that makes complete sense financially and on a whole lot of other levels, but crosses this off our list as an option. And I’m realizing that I was more attached to this idea than I was willing to admit to myself. And I’m feeling sad about it. And we still don’t know what to do. What next. Where to.
Hopes that maybe this ninth move in nine years of marriage would be the last one for quite some time. That we could finally just feel settled, to have just one solid thing.
First world problems.