My oldest daughter began middle school this month and even tried out for the basketball team. She made the first cut (whew!) and before the second round of tryouts the coach asked the girls to tell him something interesting about themselves. My daughter came up with, “I live in your former house!” That’s right, approximately eight years ago we purchased our home from this man who is now her P.E. teacher and “almost coach” (she didn’t make the final cut for the team…boooooo).
It seems like just yesterday we were house hunting when, after months of searching, our current house popped up on the MLS. At the time I was not a realtor, but I immediately called my agent and said, “You know those MLS listings you send each morning, well I think there is a good one I want to see,” and off we went for a showing. It was the height of the market and houses were moving fast. Our agent urged us to move quickly and stressed the need to make our offer stand out. I recall meeting him in a Mexican restaurant and penning a letter (because he said it HAD to be hand written) that painted a Norman Rockwell life within the walls of the house. I thought it was the most ridiculous thing anyone had ever asked me to do, but I trusted my realtor so I obeyed.
As I sipped a margarita and wrote, I described the ideal life I was going to enjoy in this dream house, something straight out of It’s a Wonderful Life. The more I partook of those margaritas, the sillier I felt. I painted a picture of our dog cozied in front of the fireplace, the treehouse we would build in the backyard, the Christmas Eve dinners we would spend at the dining room table, birthdays, the first days of school, Easter egg hunts, learning to ride bikes in the driveway…who was I writing about? Beaver Cleaver? As luck would have it, they accepted our offer and we eventually moved into our home. Today, eight years and three daughters (and a puppy) later, I realize all those things I wrote about came true, and who knows if it was our credit score or that letter that got the house, but I have often reflected that I wouldn’t have written that letter without the advice of my realtor…and several margaritas.
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The treehouse that we finally built....and one of the many birthday surprises enjoyed in the house we made a home.
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