I have to move out.
My 19-year-old daughter thinks our home of the past 15 years–a roomy brick box in Uptown–is “crappy, buggy and old.” Her three siblings have equally strong feelings about the place, but they aren’t all bad. The 17-year-old still likes the party potential of its spacious rooms and big back yard.
But the 19-year-old has a point. In warm weather, the kitchen sink is overrun by a relentless, Raid-defying ant colony lodged in the brick wall behind it, and the dining room ceiling sprouts new leaks with every storm (so much for the aesthetic of a flat roof). Cold weather is unpleasant, too, because I keep the place a bone-chilling 66 that makes the kids grouse, and I constantly nag them to help me shovel the snow (they’re deaf).
Others think the house is crappy too. My husband, who has asked me to sell it as part of our divorce, says it’s a “rundown money pit.” And a 30-something potential buyer told her Realtor the three-lot parcel is great but the house–built in 1978 by a pretty decent architect–is a teardown. I hope I don’t have to sell to the likes of her.
Despite all its flaws and its state of mild decrepitude, I’m crazy about the place. It does require a lot of work and inordinate resources, and it’s not appropriate for our lives anymore.
But it’s perfect in hindsight, not because of its physical attributes but because of the experiences we weathered here.
Most were happy, like the countless kid parties, holiday celebrations, family meals and school and team meetings. Some were profound, like the next-door neighbors who went from acquaintances to best friends. And others were gut-wrenching. Between childhood illnesses, broken bones, a home invasion and grandparents’ deaths, our family dynamic changed when my husband left.
But it all happened here, and made us who we are. My children and soon-to-be-ex are far from perfect, but they are thoughtful, interesting, kind, engaged in doing good, and have a conscience. I truly believe that they owe all these qualities to the challenges and rewards faced living in this home, which was full of love and life and family and friends for so many years.
Ironically, this was an unwanted house when we bought it in 1992. It languished on the market for over a year at a time when this little corner of Uptown was dicey. Now the neighborhood is so fancy that our taxes have tripled and we are one of only two families in the neighborhood association that sends their kids to public schools. But most importantly, we are no longer a we, and it is time to divide and regroup.
When I moved here, I was writing my first home-design book and full of plans for the place. Fourteen books and hundreds of articles on architecture and home design later, I’ve never even managed to “do” my office, let alone any other room here. The living and dining rooms have always drawn oohs and ahhs, but I still work from the card tables I set up the first day I moved in, our decorative efforts have been limited to two paint jobs, and the kitchen and bathrooms are original.
So whoever buys this place will most likely gut the kitchen and baths, add on a room or two and totally redecorate. About this, I have one thought: Perfection is overrated.
