I’ve been pretty quiet on the blogging front lately, and with good reason. You see we’ve been very busy chasing
our dream home and it’s consumed absolutely all of my time, my energy and my, well, life. It’s a tale of manifested dreams slowly coming to life, being so close, and then watching it all fall apart.
Before I get into the nitty gritty, this is about a house. Some people will think I sound spoilt boo-hooing about missing out on my dream house, so if you’re one of those people I would suggest that you might have missed the whole point of reading blogs, and it’s probably best if you get on with your life doing something else.
Now on with the boo-hooing…
I love old houses, I love the character and the creaks and the feeling that many journeys have taken part under that roof, (except for any lingering ghosts- not a fan of those). I get very attached to houses I feel connected to, and that happens mostly in old homes. So I always knew I’d live in an old home, I’d pictured my family living happily in an old house somewhere I was yet to find.
So a few years ago I found it. It was out of our price range but we went into the house I’d driven past thousands of times whispering “one day I’ll live there”, with a positive attitude. But that wasn’t our home. It was stunning, but it wasn’t what we wanted and was too small for our growing boys and although I loved it I just accepted that it wasn’t for us. I still drive past and admire that place, but it was never meant to be ours.
My desire for an older house got a bit annoying, and it meant that I couldn’t just love where we were. Our house is lovely, it’s a newer build and it’s big enough and I’m sure there’s plenty of people who would love to live in the house that’s never quite been what I want. So I deleted my real estate apps and I put myself on a real estate ban to prevent the inevitable heartbreak each time I saw a beautiful house that couldn’t be ours because it was too expensive, or would sell too quickly before we could get our place on the market due to the holes and general destruction that comes with three bouncy boys.
Then one random Saturday night in April I found myself revisiting a real estate website. There it was, my dream house. Eek! It had everything we’d ever wanted. It was full of character, had a huge block of land so that I could have veggie patches and chickens, and it felt like a little country haven in our home town with a big man shed for my husband and a little piece of paradise for my boys.
Recent sales around our area meant that we might just be able to get more for our house than we first thought and we’d be able to finally snag the house I’d always pictured in my head. It was quirky, it had creaks and it had soul. Before we knew it we’d booked an appointment to see it and I instantly fell in love. I broke all of the buying a new house rules. I cried. I said I had to have it. I was far too keen.
So to cut one very long story short, I decided that it was going to be ours. The Dream House had been on the market for a long time and I knew we could make it ours, so we made an offer and set to work. We worked day and night to get our house on the market. We had to patch the holes, clean and paint the walls, scrub the entire house from head to toe and declutter like champions. It was epic.
The entire time I was manifesting like a beast. I used all of my manifesting skills to make that house mine. When I told people our plans, their enthusiasm and support pushed me on. Then two different people in one day said, “you deserve it.” I liked that. Hell yeah we deserved it. We totally deserved to get our dream house with a big backyard and a pool for my kids who have faced more than some kids will face in their life. It wasn’t about greed, it wasn’t some shiny big fancy house, it was just everything I’d ever pictured. It had plenty of faults and was by no means perfect, but I was already living there in my head and it was great.
I created Pinterest folders and knew exactly how we’d make that house ours. Damn you, Pinterest! Our house went on the market, and our kids learnt to live in one room. They were too afraid to touch walls, sit on the lounge or use the second bathroom for fear that I’d lose my mind. They discovered that my OCD went up a notch on the day of something called “Open House Day”, and on more than one occasion declared that they didn’t want the new house if it meant all of this work. Just to be clear, work included picking up their belongings and flushing the toilet after they’d used it.
My Dad finished all the jobs that we’d never quite got to, he sanded our deck, oiled it, fixed gates, gardens and did all the little things that made our house look that much better for a quick sale. We painted until the early hours of the morning, motivated by the fact that our dream home was so close to becoming a reality.
For reasons I wont go into, we only did all of this because we really thought we were in with a good chance to buy this house that had been on the market for eight months.
So after three weeks of trying with everything we had, this house that no one else wanted for eight months went to someone else.
I found out the day before my birthday that there were other people on the scene, and that there was a chance it would go. I thought the owners would have given us longer than three weeks to sell, but I guess whoever is standing there with the money gets the house, and we always knew there was that risk. Someone’s word means nothing when money is involved.
I was a mess, but my husband just accepted that it wasn’t our house. I cried all the way home from work at the thought of telling my kids that we couldn’t have that house. After all, we deserved that house. But they didn’t cry, or have a tantrum like I did. Instead they shrugged it off and said, “so can we stay here then?”.
I had no choice but to follow their lead. It wasn’t our house. I was heartbroken but obviously in the big picture, it doesn’t matter. One person who nearly copped a punch to the eye today suggested that we should be grateful for our health, for the boys’ health, and that we have somewhere to live. Well, der. Obviously. You could say that about everything, “don’t be annoyed that you couldn’t get a parking spot, be grateful you have arms to drive.” I’m allowed to have the poops about this, at least for a couple of days. And I get it, I really do, it just wasn’t our house. The Universe says no.
So that dream is done and dusted.
We do, however, have one very shiny, de-cluttered house. Perhaps the Universe thought it was time that we got off our backsides and sorted this place out after three boys have destroyed it with handprints and footballs and wee.
Things are just about back to normal, the second toilet can be used again, there’s a pile of washing on the lounge and the “display” towels are now just regular towels. The Kmart styling can stay a bit longer until the vases and useless pretty things inevitably get destroyed by a ball, or a shoe, or even possibly wee.
The most important lesson for me in all of this was that life is not about getting what we deserve, that’s just not how it works. I knew that before, but it just sounded like a good enough reason for me to get what I wanted at a time when I was desperate for the Universe to give me a thumbs up. It was so silly to buy into that, but it was what I wanted to hear and it was what I wanted to believe. Shame.
Tonight I’m grateful for my lovely home with walls that have seen us through all of our adventures, good and bad. We’re warm and happy here, and now I can see that. Gratitude definitely helps to see what is important, it’s not something that comes naturally to me but something I always try to put into practice. Another thing that gives me comfort is picturing that house full of termites, mice and other gross things.
And a ghost. Or two.