6 a.m. I just woke from a house-hunting dream. I was trying to sway my two kids to fall in love with small town living.
In the dream, I attempted to convince my kiddos to adore a little old 1930’s bungalow. It was crooked and bent and altogether perfect. They wanted straight and even and, in my mind, vanilla.
I woke before I hammered my two squareish pegs, into round holes. (which in itself is odd–neither kid is a square peg.)
My dad used to use a terrific expression. “They’re all yours until you buy one.” I like the inherent hope in those words. The world is our oyster. It’s all ours--even after we buy one. We can let this one go and move on to the next.
Here is my wee small hours “AH HA” moment. We may or may not move again. In my mind, we will. St. Petersburg. A condo.
But (remember, everything after the but is the truth) living here, in our not what we thought we wanted house, is smashing.
I hosted Bunco–aka Drunko–two nights ago. November and all twelve ladies were seated outside by the cement pond. Rolling dice, gabbing, chomping Chex Mix. Perfect weather, lots of laughs. I worked hard at manifesting wins. (It worked. I prevailed! Fifty-five big ones.)
St. Pete may be in our future. Or not. Either way, it’s all good.
Now time to crawl back into the feathers. Maybe I’ll find out if my kids will move to that bungalow with me. Come to think of it, I had that already. A 1926 Sears home in the village of Barrington. I loved that house. And the next one and the one after that. Change is fun.
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