What's missing, but not really

Our house is on the market!

For the past seven and a half years, True and I have lived in a wonderful townhouse in Rogers Park, a neighborhood at the northeast tip of Chicago. We bought it in a condition that could only be described by the physical gestures we made when we moved in: winces and shudders. It was in good condition structurally, but it had not been updated in style since the 70s when it was built. The seller had tried to paint, but had given up when she realized she didn't have a ladder -- so the stairwell, for example, was painted only as high as she could reach. The sinks and toilets in the house were lovely shades of goldenrod, avocado, and brown marble. One wall of our bedroom was MIRRORS. After all this time, I STILL shudder to think about it.

However, I married a really handy guy. Thank heavens! Anything he didn't know how to do, he read about or asked about, and then he figured it out. So, since we bought this place, there isn't much we haven't done. All the bathrooms have been remodeled. The kitchen has been remodeled. Every room has been painted at least once. We've put in a kitchen floor, tiled a bathroom and hallway, stained and installed brand new interior oak doors, and completely finished the basement. True is just incredibly brave about all this -- he isn't afraid of electrical work, plumbing, carpentry -- it seems there's nothing he isn't willing to try. I often get frustrated with these daunting projects...

...well, let's be honest: I get downright nuts. I hate them. I hate the chaos, the mess, the time they take away from our life as a family, the unending trips to hardware stores. I wish they weren't so hard for me, but they are. I dread these projects when I know they are necessary, and True is really patient with me, but still -- it's not fair to either of us. So, I am thrilled that the house is on the market and the work is done here.

I had been worried, however, about the staging we'd need to do while the house was being shown. Our agent explained that the house needed to look as generic as possible in order to allow buyers to imagine their own stuff in it. That meant, for example, that every horizontal surface should be clear. The front of the fridge had to have nothing on it. We had to take about 75% of the kids' toys out of the living room and store them elsewhere. The portacrib we've been using as a changing table for Little Shmoo had to be folded up and put in storage. I thought it would be a nightmare. I thought we'd be constantly digging in the basement to find something we'd hidden and needed right away. I thought the kids would be whining all the time for some toy that wasn't upstairs.

But you know what? It's been really, really nice! The house is sparkling clean most of the time. There's room to sit and color at the table. There's room to dance in the living room. There's a lot of quiet, empty space that is actually way easier to look at than the cluttered-but-homey arrangements we had before. After a couple of days of Doodlebug asking where a few of her toys were, the girls have adjusted to the weeded-out playthings.

Don't get me wrong -- I miss my political posters, my refrigerator magnets, our family photos on the wall, the girls' collection of Legos, the opportunity to leave dishes in the sink overnight -- but I am happy to discover that we can live with less "stuff" pretty easily. I love sitting down at night and seeing clean space. Hopefully we can keep that going long after we have to.

So, wish us luck in finding a new place, and in filling it with as much love as we have given to this place. Actually, I take that last part back. We don't need luck for that!