Flying Lessons

Having a house on the market while you're still living in it is a lot of work. With four kids, two dogs, and a guinea pig to contend with, the work seems exponentially larger. I must admit, though, that this time isn't as tough as the last time. When we had four kids under the age of 6, selling a house was much more challenging. The toys... oh, the toys! And my mental state... oh, my mental state! Back then, I think my kids spent more time strapped in their car seats while I ran willy-nilly throughout the house than they did in the comfort of their own abode.

When we put the house on the market in December, I wasn't quite ready. Yes, my head knew it was time. But my heart hadn't yet caught up. Then our realtor extraordinaire suggested we start packing things up, thinning things out, de-cluttering. "You're moving, anyway. Might as well get some of the work done ahead of time."

And so we packed and purged and invited Amvets to come take the piles of "stuff" we hadn't looked at in years.

Then our "stager" came over and suggested a mere three pages of changes we could make to help our house show better. And so, we took down the kids' wall murals, moved some excess furniture to the garage, removed all our personal pictures.

The house doesn't seem quite like home anymore.

Slowly but surely, it's morphing into a place where we rest our heads at night, but one that we're not so attached to anymore. Once we removed all of our personal items, it made the prospect of letting go a bit more palatable.

I think, in many ways, it's like raising kids. I always worried about how I was going to kiss them each goodbye on their first day of kindergarten. When the time came, however, they were ready, I was ready, the goodbyes were not bittersweet, but tinged with excitement and adventure. I often wonder what it will feel like to send my kids off to college. But when I talk to my friends who have already traveled that path, they say, "You'll be ready. God works mysteriously that way. You'll want to kick your lazy, sullen teenager out of the nest so he can spread his wings and make his own way in the world."

And so, I suppose, it will be when they find the loves of their lives and walk down the aisle -- when they gift me with new daughters-in-law, with a new son-in-law. And then Chris and I will stand hand in hand ready to travel, to visit grandbabies, to revel in the silence and serenity that we knew in the early years of our marriage.

Selling a house is a bit like raising children. The little goodbyes, when they come, aren't quite as heartbreaking as we once imagined. When it's time to move on, there's no sense in holding tightly to what used to be. Embracing what is yet to come with open arms and trust and courage is the only way to grow.

The more we neutralize the place we call home, the less it feels like home. Every time we take down a family picture, a tiny bit of our future is revealed to us -- the future that exists outside these four walls. With every passing day, with every showing, the adventure that awaits us becomes more apparent.

And I am becoming -- bit by bit -- more ready to embrace it.

When we walk out of this house for the final time, I will take hold of my children's hands (at least the ones who won't scoff at me when I do it. Okay, Mary Claire is the only one will hold my hand...), grab my husband by the heart, and fly.

With every passing day, my wings are growing stronger.

Wins and Losses

I've been thinking a great deal about loss lately. And when I say "loss," you're conjuring up a negative connotation, aren't you? Yeah, me, too.

But I don't necessarily think that's always the case.

Over the past year and a half, I've lost nearly 70 pounds. On my way to 100, I'm morphing into a new human form. I've lost lots of jiggly fat, 6 dress sizes, and a Suburban full of clothes that no longer fit. I've lost physical discomfort, excessive sweating, painful red marks around my belly from too-tight waistbands, late-night bingeing urges, and granny panties.

But I've gained so much more. Self-confidence, self-awareness, strength, stamina, some hot new clothes, energy, and enthusiasm. The funny thing, though? I'm still exactly the same person -- I just look different. And by looking different, I feel different. I'm thinking about myself differently. I'm projecting myself differently. But I'm still the same old me.

We're in the process of "losing" the hometown we've known for 10 years -- the only home our kids truly remember. We're selling our house and we're going to lose our financial asses. Originally priced below what we paid, we've already dropped the ask by $20,000. The market has changed, our country is in a financial crisis. Our house is just one tiny piece of sand on a shore of financial instability. And before, this situation would have made me weepy and afraid. Now, I realize it is simply what it is. We lose money, we make money. We buy homes, we sell homes, we lose our asses on homes. We get the opportunity to follow some pretty big dreams. If those come at a cost, we're willing to pay it.

Life is too short to cling so tightly to the things that don't really matter in the long run.

This past year, we lost an integral piece of our lives -- friends we've had for many, many years. Friends who know us best, have seen us at our worst, and who decided they no longer trusted in us or wanted to be a part of our lives. It's a grand loss in so many ways. In fact, there is a friend-sized hole in my heart that may heal someday, but will always leave a scar. In this loss, I gained some perspective. I realized that I no longer wanted to walk on eggshells, to be accused of being wrong all the time, to wonder when the next explosion was going to occur, to be judged. I will always love my friend dearly, but we were no longer serving each other. It's been evident for some time now that we were heading down a one-way path... and that going back would not be easy. That it might, in fact, be impossible. Losing a beloved friendship is painful, searing, often times agonizing. But the good news is that we're both still alive, we're both still breathing, we're both still functioning, thriving, moving forward. She has a beautiful family and abundant blessings. Perhaps she'll find a friend who better meets her needs. Maybe she already has. We were good for each other once. She taught me many things -- is a critical piece of the 40-year-old that I am today. That history can never be relinquished. It will, in fact, be the basis for many of my tomorrows. Ultimately, that can't be considered a loss, even if it looks that way from the outside.

It's just an unexpected turn in the road.

Kahlil Gibran makes me smile and nod when he says, "When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight." I have been weeping for my friend. There was much happiness and laughter and joy and delight in our friendship. For that, I will always be grateful.

A few days ago, I finished "An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination." Highly recommended by my dear friend, Mary, I was reluctant to read the account of a stillborn child. And now I can't get Elizabeth McCracken and Pudding out of my head. As the grieving author moves through the first few days after her infant son's death, she quotes, "You see, I'd thought he was a sure thing."

"I'd thought he was a sure thing."

So much of my life has been believing in the "sure thing," searching for the "big truth," the assurance that nothing will change. But everything changes. And it can happen in the blink of an eye. Elizabeth McCracken's loss is -- in my estimation -- the worst kind of loss possible. To outlive a child, I think, is the most devastating of tricks that can befall us on this earth. Inevitably, there are lessons to learn from that kind of loss. And they are lessons I never want to learn.

My children are home for the next four days. (Although they've only been back in school for two weeks, some higher power decided that now was a good time for a long weekend.) Yes, they'll drive me nuts. Yes, we'll laugh with crazy abandon. Yes, we'll run the gamut of emotions.

My fourteen-year-old will get sent to Planet Mean. That's where he goes when his jackass attitude goes over the top. Planet Mean is a place that looks shockingly similar to his bedroom, but there are no phones, no electronics, no Xbox Live. On Planet Mean, he gets to engage in some self-reflection -- he gets to think about why he is choosing to be a jerk and what might constitute a better choice. For hours at a time.

Gus will loiter around me aimlessly. I'll ask if there's something he needs, and he'll shake his head "no." He'll sidle off to the kitchen and grab a quick snack from the pantry. Then another. Then another. Then he might share a long-winded story with me about an iPhone app that is so relentlessly uninteresting I'd just as soon chew my own arm off than engage with it. Then he'll complain about his siblings being nasty to him and leaving him out of their reindeer games.

Mary Claire will inevitably have a high-drama moment. At some point in the next four days, she'll cry like the world is coming to an end because she's had to "break up" with a friend or because we won't let her have a sleepover with 15 other hormonal 10 and 11-year-old girls.

And George. George will be loud. George will be obnoxious. George will burp and say inappropriate things at the dinner table. He will argue with his siblings, he will "forget" to flush the toilet, and he will annoy his teenage brother so much that eventually, something will be thrown at his head.

But I'll take those moments. Every single one of them. Chris and I will revel in them. We'll sit together with our respective Kindles and Nooks ordering certain children to Planet Mean and talking others off the emotional ledge. Because losing any of that? That would be True Loss. The kind of loss that could only be measured in empty, endless days and an aching, gut-wrenching journey through a life void of what truly matters.

Money, houses, neighborhoods? Those are losses that can be replaced. Friendships? Never replaced, but always treasured.

I am celebrating my wins today. Chris, Sam, Mary Claire, Gus, and George... I am celebrating you.

Intruders

Mary Claire is not happy about showing our house. She's more than a little unnerved by the knowledge that people are going to walk through her room, see her toys, possibly lick her toothbrush.

"Are they going to touch my stuff?" she asks constantly. "Will they open my drawers? Will they read my books? Will they sit on my bed?"

And we very calmly explain to her that there's no need for concern -- that everyone who comes through our house will be accompanied by a professional realtor, that they won't have free reign to use our toilets or grab a snack from our pantry.

"But what about my stuff?" she continues to ask. "I don't want them touching my things."

I'm not sure who she's imagining walking through her room, but it obviously resembles some kind of grunting, dirty, three-headed abomination.

"Honey," I finally relented, "don't worry about your things. At worst, they'll only read your diary. And kiss your Justin Bieber posters, and undress your American Girl dolls. And they'll probably test Sam's deodorant and try on George's underwear and eat Gus's hidden stash of beef jerky."

I think that quelled her fears. She seems much more comfortable with the situation now.