I guess we live here now.

I've lived in my current city since 1994.  The first 5 years I rented apartments as a tenant-at-will. The very idea I could give 30 days notice and go somewhere else helped me delay any decisions about where I really might want to live.  When my husband and I bought our first house, we said it was for "5-7" years.  We had vague plans to not live here--based mostly on assumption and stereotype about the city and urban living.  We saw ourselves in the suburbs, as if that guaranteed a better life for us.

And then we had babies and I started graduate school.  It made no sense to move out of the area during that time, especially since school and work were each 5-10 minutes away.  And then husband's perfect job emerged--also 5-10 minutes from the house.  For years we kept saying "next year we'll move."  And then we looked closely at the details of where we lived and realized it's actually an amazing city.  (And one in which, despite the economic downturn, has continued to prioritize schools and family services.)  The city still has an underdog reputation, and has some undeniably shady history, but the past 15 years has seen a revitalization and emphasis on community that we have generally under-appreciated.

Our lifestyles emerged around urban conveniences.  Delivery at any hour of any type of cuisine.  A short commute to some of the most famous cultural, medical, and educational venues in the country.  The fact our children have friends from around the world and are growing up with an inherent acceptance and appreciation for difference.  And while this is something we'd teach them, I do love the fact we can "walk the walk" every single day.  It wasn't until college that I knew anybody who wasn't almost exactly like me.  Giving up the idea of a huge yard, distance from neighbors, and a two car garage was easier than we thought it would be.  Our lives are busy--we don't have time for yard work anyway.  We like our neighbors so it's not a problem that we can see into their windows and know what they are having for dinner if they forget to pull the blinds.  And though we still dream of a garage, we're gaining off-street parking in our new house and that is progress enough.   Plus, you gotta have dreams, right?

Our quality of life here is undeniable.  My husband's job often requires him to return to work in the evenings, even if just for an hour or so.  Living where we do means he can still be involved with after school pick up, dinner, and bedtime, and get back to work.  Now that our older child is in second grade, her class takes field trips all over the city to museums, green spaces, free concerts, and the occasional movie at a local independent movie house, at minimal expense and maximum ease.  And my husband and I can chaperon because it only means a couple of hours away from work, not a full day.  It really is a good balance for our family and we are happy with it.

But for years we have also accepted the distance from some of the people whom we consider our primary tribe because of the promise of someday being their neighbors.  These are people we've known for 20 years that I consider extensions of my heart and soul.  The hardest part about admitting we aren't moving out of the city is admitting we won't be living 5 minutes from them.  I've ignored that for the better part of 5 years.  Buying a new house in our current city has forced me to admit we really live here now, and are here to stay.

In practice, nothing will change.  We will make the 45 minute drive for parties and important events.  They will come to us, we will go to them.  But for so long I believed they would also be the "let's meet for coffee in an hour" or "my car died can you pick up my kids" friends.  I had looked forward to the day when getting together involved less advance planning and coordination.  To fully admit that this won't be the case has created an unexpected mourning period, which makes me feel silly.  After all, by not moving an hour away I'm staying close to some of the other members of the same tribe.  But I still feel like for years I said one thing and am now doing the opposite.  A little part of me is fighting social insecurity, as if the revocation of the promise to live down the road will be held against me.

Now that I've made my bed . . .

Remember how your high school English teacher would tell you "write first, title last"?  That the title should come from the body of the work to reflect a key sentiment, phrase, or image?  Well, I've never been able to do that.  I'm type A and I do things In Order, and I could never get my left brain to accept that naming a piece was the last step.  After all, it's the first thing you read.  So it goes first.  (I also judge books by their cover, but what can you do?)

I don't have a title for this entry, and I'm typing blind (no, not literally.  geez).  I wanted to write, I have some time (see what waking up unassisted at 5am can lead to?), and I have so much on my brain.  Let's see what blogging does.

Our house is on the market.  We've been working like crazy people for two weeks to get it ready because we have an accepted offer on another house.  Not the one I originally walked by each day to ask it to help me out, but the one in the neighborhood that must have heard me and decided it wanted me because it went on the market about two weeks into my walks.

It's very odd living in a house you are trying to sell.  We decluttered and cleaned (OK, we hired people to do that for us).  The place looks amazing.  AMAZING.  I saw the listing and thought "I want to buy that house."  I'm so proud of how it looks and all the work we've done over the years.  Especially the care and maintenance my husband has given the home.  He often drives me nuts with some of what I see as overly obsessive details, but in this case, some of that has paid off. (SOME of that.  Not all.  He reads this and I need him to know this is not carte blanche for the rest of what I hope will be 60+ more years together.  I will still argue that some things can be ignored without any consequence.)

We had our first showing yesterday and two more scheduled for today, and our open house is this weekend.  I'm excited and uneasy at the same time.  Having strangers walk through and judge your most personal spaces is weird.  It's just weird.  And though most of what makes it personal has been removed or hidden away, I'm thinking more about how the energy here is personal.  We've already shaken it up by turning our home into a show piece (we do NOT live this way, and the house knows it).  I want at least one of these strangers to love the house and buy it, obviously.  But I want all the people who see it to like it and appreciate it, because it is a reflection on me in some way.  I hear Sally Field's Oscar speech in my head as we get ready for the showings.  ("You like me!  You really like me!")

I have all the expected feelings about this process.  Excited for the new house.  A little sad to be leaving this, our first house, and the one in which our grownup life took roots and the only home our children have ever known.  This house has been very good to us, and I hope it will be OK when we aren't here to look after it. 

But most of all I want the process over because I am not the type to make my bed every day just in case someone wants to come see the house while we're all at work and school.