Eric and I finally found a house that we agreed on and was in our price range--no easy feat after eight months of looking. He wanted something with a garage and a shop; I wanted something that would be big enough to stay in if we decide to have a baby; we both wanted something that we could see ourselves living in for the next part of our lives--he wants to be able to "build stuff" and I want four chickens and a vegetable garden. At last our ideas meshed when we came across a small, sweet, country-style rambler just outside the city limits with a huge backyard, plum trees, apple trees, grapes, and roses; an awesome crusty garage and shop, complete with its own built-in man cave (a former canning room, I believe); and gasp!--a chicken coop. When we first saw the house it had had been vacant for a long time, and was just begging for us to come live there. We placed our bid in the middle of September, and after much finagling, discussing, meeting, and the signing of a million papers, it was ours.
Now, for those of you who have seen the apartment we were leaving, you will understand the pit that formed in my stomach shortly after signing all the papers and realizing that buying a house meant moving out of our apartment. It was a great space--private and calm, with birds and deer almost daily, but it was on stilts on the top of a very steep driveway, up two flights of stairs, and down a long walkway. NOT FUN. Of course, I knew it would be worth it, and the move into our new house would be an easy one, but I was dreading having to tackle getting out of there.
What a surprise I was in for.
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