Last night on his way home from work, Dave picked up a St. Joseph’s Home Selling Kit. We recently caught an episode of Million Dollar Listing in which the seller buried a statue of St. Joseph the Worker in his backyard and recited a prayer only to have his house sell days later despite the fact that he snapped Joseph’s head off when he stuck him in the ground, and Dave and I looked at each other and said, “We need to get one of those.”
(An aside: Ever notice that when there’s something major going on in your life you tune into similar television shows? Like, when I was pregnant, all I wanted to watch was shows like Maternity Ward, Special Delivery, Labour and Delivery – I didn’t want any of that smarmy Baby Story crap, I wanted the fast-paced maternity action. And now that we’re selling again, we can’t get enough of Buy Me, Designed To Sell, Flip This House…are y’all like that too?) I digress.
We had a showing last night at 6pm, and by the time Dave got home there was no time to bury St. Joseph, so we said the prayer, put him on the mantle and got busy tidying up. We were here when our agent brought the couple through but we stayed in the dining room with the kids and pumped them full of pudding and freezies and Froot Loops to keep them quiet.
They were a very pleasant couple and from what we could tell, they liked the house. They stood downstairs in our family room for several minutes chatting with our agent and congregated again in our hall for further discussion, then left and stood in our driveway looking at the house for several more minutes before getting in their car. This morning I took the kids to an indoor playground before heading over to our doctor’s office for Julia’s required pre-op ‘physical’ (seven days ‘till surgery…deep breath in, deep breath out…), and when I got home I noticed my agent had called while we were gone. Get this – he’s meeting with the couple tonight; they have a few more questions about the house and would like to discuss putting an offer in.
He works fast, that St. Joseph. Dang. Here’s where I beg and get whiny: Oh please, please, please let an offer come out of this…send us all the good luck you can muster up. I’ve been really discouraged about this whole process as of late; I’d love to get a solid offer and get this place sold so we can really focus on finding an awesome new pad. Keep your fingers crossed for us!
He’s nonstop all the time. Always go go go, running around, moving from one thing to the next, getting into things he shouldn’t be getting into. He could find a way to hurt himself inside a padded room. His stomach is a bottomless pit – the boy can pack it back, and not just food – he seems to get pretty hardcore cravings for Kleenexes, Huggies wipes and sidewalk chalk. He’s had more bumps, scrapes, cuts and bruises in his lifetime than his sister, who’s got two years on him.
He’s poured hot coffee on himself without batting an eyelash and save a few tears, all but brushed off a bee sting to his upper lip yesterday afternoon. He’s rambunctious and curious and absolutely fucking exhausting.
I love him. Especially when he’s sleeping. And I love this post of Halloween lover’s, which describes, as she puts it, her “weird theory about life” that ties into her feelings about not finding out the gender of her baby. I have to say, I don’t find her theory weird at all;
I think it’s a beautiful way to look at the decisions and choices you make in your life and the many firsts that we get to experience, and that’s why she’s my pick for the August Perfect Post Award. Check it out, as well as all of the other Perfect Post awardees at Suburban Turmoil and Petroville.