Lucky

When you get a great deal on a house because it has gone through foreclosure and is beat up pretty badly, you feel so lucky. Then you stand in your kitchen attempting to cook solely with a microwave wearing your pajamas because that is the only clothing you can find. You can't let the kids go to sleep until you find the box containing their blankets, and you stand in line to brush your teeth at the kitchen sink because that is the only working sink in the house. Then, instead of feeling lucky, your eyes glaze over and you remember the better times of last month when you knew where your socks were.

I now understand why moving is listed as one of the top five stress inducing experiences. Half of everything I own is in the garage packed in a box, and the other half is not the half I need. I can't unpack because we took on a "fixer upper" and it is kicking our butts.

I confess that there have been plenty of times that I have thought about returning the house to the bank like you would a pair of shoes to the mall. But then I saw Emery standing in the space that was to be her room. I was outside and saw her through a window. Her "room" was currently an old formal entertaining room, but we told her we would build her walls and closets. Then, like only an artist can, she stood, stared, and dreamed. It took her a mighty long time and a lot of eye squinting. I have no idea what ideas she tossed around, but when she was done she told us she had a plan that involved paining a tree across the wall above her bed. She wanted a platform bed with no headboard, and the tree was to be purple. Then she sat down and drew it out.

Then I felt lucky again, but for a completely different reason.





Oh yeah - and then I remembered that this is my backyard.



Lucky.