There must have been pixie dust in the plaster they used to build houses in the '20s, because we've officially put in an offer on a house built in 1928. Our first house was built in 1922. This one is twice the size, of course, and has been redone from top to bottom (mostly), but still.
These past 10 days has been an absolute roller coaster of emotions, thoughts, feelings and strategies. We've gone from planning to live out of town, to living downtown, to living in the 'burbs, to building in the 'burbs, to renting, to buying an RV and officially becoming gypsies. Then, we found a house that had been on the market for months. We checked it out, loved it, waited a day and put in an offer on the same day as someone else...and got out bid. We let it go, thinking that it wasn't meant to be.
Two days later, while we're walking through something built in 1918 and falling in like with it, we find out the people withdrew their offer and the house was back on the market. If you had asked me last night which house I'd buy, it was going to be the one from 1918. Today? We revised our offer on the original house and sent it off with our agent.
Now, we wait.
In the meantime, I've found a kindred spirit in a childcare provider who lives 1.5 km from our (potential) new house. We were on the phone for 30 minutes and could have talked all afternoon, but instead, I'm going to swing by there later today for a visit. In the span of one phone call we had talked homebirths, organics, music, gardening, neighborhoods, shopping, languages, work and how many kids we plan to have. Seriously. She told me she loved me in our first conversation. I can't make this up. And I think I love her too.
The best part? Although she originally told me she didn't have room for Chou, it turns out she's got twins who only attend Mon and Fri. I need care Tues-Thurs. It's fate, yes?
Which brings me back to waiting on our new house.