How do you take a major life event, an awesome, incredible, monumental life event, and do it justice in a measly blog post?
That’s pretty much why I’ve been procrastinating on writing about the move into our new house. I’m hesitant to write about it because I don’t want to seem overly dramatic about it… but I also don’t want to ignore it and blow it off like it’s no big deal for me.
Because it’s a huge deal for me.
Growing up, we didn’t have much fancy stuff. I lived in a small trailer with my mom, dad, and sister until I was a freshman in college, when my parents purchased their first house. For 15 years, I slept in a bunk bed in a room shared with my sister that was smaller than a lot of my friends’ closets. My friends at school wore Guess & Levis. We wore whatever was on sale at Hills after my mom picked it up from layaway, weeks after we ‘bought’ it. I didn’t get a car until I purchased one myself after I graduated from college. My parents cars (or car, singular, for a while until my mom started working when my sister was in school all day) were always running on their last leg. My parents worked HARD, harder than anyone else I know, but we still very much lived paycheck to paycheck.
At the time, as a kid, I was oblivious to how things really must have been for my parents. I imagine that was by design: they shielded us as much as they could from the money woes and stress because we were kids and shouldn’t have had to worry about them. And it worked, because I really didn’t think much of it. It was just the way it was, it was all I’d ever known. We were Trailer Park Kids. We had some good friends there (and also had some crazy redneck neighbors, but those are stories for another day… and woo-boy, are there some stories!) We ran wild in the woods behind our house in the summer, building ‘cabins’ with our neighbor friends and riding our bikes on the trails. We had incredibly fun and happy childhoods with parents who loved us and I wouldn’t change it for the world.
And now, I’m a grown-up (YIKES.) and I’m living the American Dream. Or at least that’s how it feels.
While the movers were bringing our furniture and boxes and basically everything we own in the world into our new house on Friday, I spent the morning just wandering from room to room, in complete awe that I live here now.
We love this house. There is nothing we were hoping for in a house that it doesn’t have (Well, except for a Money Tree in the backyard. That would have been pretty freaking sweet.) And the way it all happened and things fell into place with the offer we made and the selling of our house and the entire process went incredibly smoothly… just boggles my mind.
All the hard work we put into our first house- ELBOW GREASE TO THE MAX- paid off. A little bit of it was luck, of course, as most real estate endeavors are. But it’s extremely satisfying to know that the 5 years we spent working on project after project led to us being able to trade-up into what basically amounts to a dream house. We are now living in a neighborhood filled with kids and friendly families, and several of them have already stopped by to say hello, invited us for golf outings, and included us in the neighborhood PowerBall pool.
I can’t believe that the little crooked-toothed girl from the trailer park is living in a huge house with hardwood floors and my OWN CLOSET.
I am blessed. We are blessed.
And I cannot wait to make memories here with my family.