That house was the dream of a 23 year old spoiled princess. My small family of three moved in when I was full of idealistic folly with no real concept of homemaking whatsoever. How long it took me to learn how to manage laundry, toddler wrangling, scrubbing toilets and how not to turn everything in your pots and pans to sludge with one moment of inattention? Oh, the glamourous life of a House Milf! How many hours did I spend doing loads of laundry, bleary-eyed but accompanied by an OCD-like precision with an all-consuming fierceness in regards to wrinkle control? It took me years to be able to feel like I wasn't just "playing house".
Two of my babies were conceived and took their first steps there. The growth of my three boys was charted on one of the walls for seven long years. Cupcakes, dance parties, organic vegetable and herb gardens, wine and tea and always, always a place to stay for a stray friend in need for as long as was necessary. Every wall, every door, every patch of floor has its own story. The house that love built.
It's also the house of pain. The house of loneliness so crippling that even certain members of The Wiggles appeared to be sexually attractive. The house of unhappiness, of immaturity, of two people struggling and failing. It's also the house where love went to die.
I'm ready to pass my house on. Furthermore, after standing empty for nearly nine months, my house is ready to be loved again; to contain and foster love within its walls. The house that built me is ready to build another family. Our blood, sweat and tears can now become someone else's dream.
I went in wide-eyed and with a great belief in forever. I am coming out not quite a seasoned veteran, and still not yet jaded. My eyes are wide-open, sure; just not with the same naiveté. I still have a great hope for the future, it's just that I'm looking in a different direction. It feels good.