Unless something catastrophic (and really, I’m remaining diligent about not countin’ my wee chicks before they hatch) happens in underwriting, I close on my new house on June 1. It’s stressful. I wonder about all the “fun” that I think should accompany home buying and I … just don’t get it.
For me, buying a house means that I’m really in debt. Like really. in. debt. I worry about money. I doubt I worry about money more than the average person worries about money, but I vocalise it often. What happens if I lose my job? What happens if I find the utility payments are massive? What will I do if the heat pump breaks? How the hell do I buy a lawn mower? What if a tree falls on my house? What if someone breaks in?
This is what I do.
And the answers are simple: Get a new job. Do more contract work. Save for emergencies (hahahaha). Craigslist. Fix it. Put some NRA stickers on the window. Simple.
Fear of the might-happens is never a great way to live, but a little educated caution is wise. I think. The difference with this buying is that it’ll be wholly mine. It’s all me. There’s no one to fall back on, and there’s no one to really share in the joy and fear with me. And I think that’s why this feels so odd.
Why am I buying? It’s a good time to buy. It’s also time for these fools to have a real yard:
Eleanor would like a yard as well.
And I’m tired of throwing my money into renting. It’s a damn waste. I want to be able to paint my walls and turn my refrigerator into a giant chalkboard and garden in my backyard. I’d like to put my money into something that will someday be a benefit to us. Perhaps more than any of that is that it’s a matter of pride. I’ve lived in an apartment for two years. I’m 32 years old and I’m a mother. My apartment has never felt like home; it’s felt like an apartment. And truth be told, I’ve felt a bit like a failure.
I would have loved to have a house on some land. That is the ideal. What we have instead is a little house on a big lot with a massive, fenced backyard. It’s in a historic neighborhood, near everything, but on a quiet street. And I’m happy about that.
I’d post pictures, but I’m feeling a tad superstitious. When the house is mine (well, the bank’s but you knoooow) and I have the key in hand, I’ll show you, eh?