A Difficult Choice

I'm superstitious.

I wish I weren't (I think it's stupid). I fully understand that just saying something isn't going to make it happen. And yet, I knock wood. I know that purchasing baby items before a baby is born doesn't sabotage a pregnancy. And yet, I didn't have a single diaper in the house before my first born came home from the hospital. I worry about 'jinxing' a situation by talking about it so I keep quiet until I'm sure of the outcome.

So I didn't mention that we were selling the Mistress until the contract was signed and the deposit was sent.

It's a sad moment for us.

We live in a small unremarkable house in the suburbs of New York City and we don't particularly like it. We are tied to it because of commitments we've made and we accept it for the most part and make ourselves comfortable. The lack of space hasn't much mattered to me because I knew that six acres of lovely fields and woods were waiting for us someday in Southern Vermont. And you all know how Niall feels about the house. (At times I've wondered who his true love was.) But we're currently a one income family for all intents and purposes and the one income isn't enough to support two homes.

There are always choices to be made.

Could I put the baby in day-care and work full-time and possibly make it so we could reasonably hang on to the house? Probably. Do I want to? No. So we have made a choice to give up one dream for holding on to another. It was hard to get here. We tried to make it work and frankly, we made it worse.

We've been up there weekends cleaning and clearing and making the most of the time left.

These canning jars were all found in the basement of the house when Niall bought it in 1991.

Many were filled with tomatoes (at least, that's what they appeared to be—no one tried them to be sure). They date back to the early part of the century and are tinted varying shades of blue. We used some of them as vases to hold wildflowers on the tables at our wedding. Now they sit all in a row along the tops of our kitchen cabinets. I hope one day we can pack them up and bring them back to Vermont and have them line the shelves of a different house.

The closing is scheduled to take place in the upcoming weeks and it's a relief. A weight has been lifted and we know it's the right thing to do. But it's sad and hard and I wish it could be different.

I tell myself with a lump in my throat: we do what we have to do to make it work.

And I hear my mother's voice saying: this too shall pass.