We’ve got a dream here at Chez Roberge.
It’s not as lofty or altruistic as MLKJr.’s, but it’s ours.
See, for the past three years, Husband and I have been looking for our little piece of heaven.
Since being pregnant with Gabe, we’ve been scouring MLS (and PropertyGuys and ComFree and and and) for a few acres, in the Middle of Nowhere, where our family can stretch and breath and grow.
Somewhere we could have a garden. A big one.
Somewhere we could have a dog. A big one.
And maybe a chicken or two.
A goat?
Bees?
Husband and I both spent a good deal of our formative years on farms (cows and pigs and hay – oh my!) and we’re both itching to get back to it in some small way.
We thought we’d found it in this property. 10 acres. Good commuter location. Dumpy on the inside, but good bones.
We went so far as to put in an offer. More than the house was worth, according to our estate agent, but we made allowances for the fact that, given time and money, this house could be our Dream Home.
I spent several days envisioning our lives in this house. Cooking in its kitchen. Gardening in its backyard. Taking my kids for walks in its fields. I even had my mother move into her own apartment in its basement.
We didn’t count on there being multiple offers.
Our best price wasn’t enough.
I saw my dreams go up in a puff of drywall dust and I fell into the funkiest of funks.
Nothing anyone said could make me feel better.
I bathed daily in a ditch of my own selfpity.
Aaaaand then I snapped out of it.
I have FB and an aquaintance (forgive me Laura) to thank.
“Someone dinged my Beamer. My baby needs body work! Boo hoo!”
I am, I have realized, the whitest of White Girls with the firstest of First World Problems.
I’m crying that I don’t have 10 acres? An open concept kitchen? A chicken coop?
Seriously?
Boofrickenhoo.
I have a husband and children in total mutual dotage.
I have a roof over my head and a mortgage that will be paid off in 9 years.
I have a great set of friends and hair that looks pretty decent right out of the shower.
I have a good mother.
What the heck do I have to complain about?
.
…besides the fact that some rich bastard stole my house!?
.
*cough*
.
Okay, so I still have a ways to go.
xo
Just think about how many coats of paint it would have taken to cover up that smurf coloured kitchen.
And when you do find the right place, you will heave a sigh of relief that some douchebag is living in your Near Miss.
We’re living in parallel universes. First, behbehs, now househs. I’ve mentally moved myself into two houses over the past year and a half of searching and have had to repack, hire a mental moving truck, and haul everything back out again when some rich bastards bought them for more than we could afford.
And we want chickens and bees too! Is that weird, considering we’re looking downtown Toronto?
I was really hoping the whole Backyard Chicken thing would go through. Stupid politicians. As for our parallell lives. They should converge sometime in the near future. At my house. For dinner.
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