And the Thrill is Gone

Last weekend, my sister-in-law's boyfriend - we'll call him Jim - asked an excellent question. We were in the kitchen after breakfast when he paused after setting a dish in the sink.

"So, if I may ask," he began cautiously. "Why were the bananas in the oven?"

We both glanced at the bananas he was referring to. They now sat on the counter, their blackened undersides creating a skunk-like appearance from the five minutes they spent in a preheating oven - before I'd tried to insert a cookie sheet full of biscuits and remembered they were in there. Whoops.

Briefly, I considered offering Jim the true story. I considered telling him how I'd discovered a giant hole gouged out of our last bunch of bananas, and how closer inspection revealed track marks from two prominent front teeth. Since we don't have a mutant baby - and besides, Gavin has eight teeth now - Jon and I had to accept a difficult concept.

The true story is, we've got a rodent problem. Ugh.

"Well..." I stalled.

I almost did tell Jim all of it. If only he had been a jerk, I might have. But this was the first meeting between us and Jim. So far he seemed like a nice guy, and The Rodent Problem definitely didn't feel like a good getting-to-know-you story. So I decided to say something vague, see how he responded, and take it from there.

"The other day I discovered a bite taken from one of the bananas," I said, and waited.

My explanation appeared to satisfy his curiosity; he nodded knowingly. We left that conversation there, although I continued to wonder what conclusion he had reached in his head. Did he assume I was trying to keep Gavin out of the bananas? Did he think Jon had been taking random swipes from the fruit bowl? Was rodent infestation normal for this guy? Or was he just trying to be polite and not ask too many questions, biding his time until he could escape our gross new/old house?

This mouse situation has caused the reality of inhabiting an old home to come crashing down in our faces. Upon moving in, we bleached and scrubbed our way through all drawers and cabinets, and still we've got critters creeping around, gnawing through sealed bags of brown rice, helping themselves to our fruit. We've got a team from wildlife control coming out in a few days to seal up gaps, and luckily there's no evidence that they are anywhere but in the lower kitchen cabinets (and at least one time on the countertop that formerly hosted a fruit bowl), but I'm still horrified.

My interest in old homes has played out kind of like a lusty relationship. At first I coveted the way the house moved and walked and whispered sweet nothings in my ear like CHARACTER and POTENTIAL and COOL OLD CRYSTAL DOORKNOBS. Then I started noticing its flaws. The old windows, most of which have been painted shut. The tiny closets. And, you know, The Rodent Problem. Until then, the other flaws didn't matter too much.

But now, the thrill is officially gone.

House!

There are two things that over the past couple years have occasionally brought me the sense that I will be be doing them forever. One is breastfeeding, the other is living in my small Midtown condo. These factors have remained steadfast and showed no signs of loosening their grip until recently, when remarkable things took place. Changes.

I'm committed to a gentle weaning approach, so I still might be breastfeeding when I'm eighty (hm, creepy) - but I'll be doing so from a house.

That's right, we have moved out of the condo. I can hardly believe it.

We didn't sell it like I'd hoped. It sat on an already-sputtering market since shortly after an important message (_ _ _ Pregnant) was delivered to Jon and I via a small digital testing device (ok, eight small digital testing devices). We tried everything to sell - painted the walls a neutral, hopeful plantation beige, depersonalized the decor, left music playing softly in the background for showings, emphasized WALKING DISTANCE TO PIEDMONT PARK AND FOX THEATER!

When none of these tips worked, we lowered the asking price. But that didn't work either. We couldn't lower it enough - there are too many foreclosed condos in the area that we can't compete with.

It really is a nice place for one or two people to live. I have great memories from my single days there, and the Jon days before, you know, he knocked me up. Well, after too, but once Gavin arrived it got smaller and smaller, so small that some days it felt possible to sit on the living room couch, reach up, and brush my teeth in the bathroom sink.

That's too small.

Fast forward to several weeks ago: circumstances came together at the right time and pulled us in a new direction. First, we noted the appearance of another 2-bedroom condo foreclosure in the vicinity, and began warming to the idea of renting instead of selling. Then, two of Jon's clients moved to the nursing home, vacating a house in Decatur. And next, this couple liked Jon and liked the idea of a young family taking over their home, so they offered us a great deal. Finally, we found friendly, responsible renters for the condo. The twist was that they needed to move in soon. So soon, in fact, that we had a week to move out. But we worked with that.

As I write this it's been almost two weeks since we found renters, and five days since we've been in the new house. Life has been a whirlwind of boxes, paint cans, sore muscles, and trips to the now-close Ace Hardware (do people know about Ace Hardware? It's like Home Depot meets Virginia Highlands boutique...I can't get enough).

Anyway, we love the house. It has a great yard, looks charming from the outside, and will look charming from the inside too when my decorating team (my mom, me, Jon tunes in and out) get through with it. It's old in several respects...I don't think the previous tenants updated it since the 1950's when it was built, with the exception of several helpful devices to accommodate the elderly. We can work with that too, though. Like, maybe if I'm carrying heavy bags of groceries, I can use the handle screwed to the side door frame to help propel myself up that last step into the house. And if one of us ever drinks too much and decides to take a shower, there's another handle attached to the shower wall. And Gavin can ride his little truck down the wheelchair ramp in the backyard.

See? We can roll with the old house. The most important thing is that it's a better place for Gavin. There is space to store his winter clothes and room for him to play both in and outside.

Gavin, this one's for you, little buddy :).