"And Room to Grow..."

House hunting has come to a stall. We submitted an offer on Tuesday and it was rejected by the seller that same day. Rock on. There's an open house Sunday, so we're waiting to find out if anyone else bites. If no one does, we might submit a new offer, but we're also thinking about walking away if we must.

Walking away is the hardest thing to do when you're house hunting. It's so easy to fall in love: you find the house. You start imagining paint choices, furniture, little knick knacks and lamps and pictures and then you start preemptively filling in the memories you plan to make in each room of your house. But, it's not your house, not yet at least.

We foolishly did all of those things, filling up the pictures in our minds with all of our stuff, with all of that potential. Walking away is going to be so hard from a house we've fallen in love with.

Hunting for a house is the most grown up thing we've ever done in our adult lives. For me, it's unsettled some emotions I thought were put to rest over this last year. It all started when we set up our search parameters: 3 bedroom, 1+ bath. Since Larry works at home, a three-bedroom house makes sense: a master bedroom for us, an office for Larry, and "room to grow."

"Room to grow..." We've defaulted to this phrase at each home tour and open house. And every time I say it, I won't lie: it's tinged with sadness.

I know we'll be parents. I know we'll have a family. And I know we will probably never be able to do it the old-fashioned way, short of a miracle. Even after a year, even after all these positive, hopeful, advocacy-driven posts - it still hurts. It still cuts deep. I wander through these houses and these empty rooms, envisioning nurseries painted in soft pastels and knowing that Team Zoll #3 will never be half of Team Zoll #1 and Team Zoll #2. It doesn't matter. If it did, we'd never consider adoption or IF treatments in the first place.

But just because it doesn't matter doesn't mean that it doesn't hurt sometimes. It's in these rare, unguarded moments these feelings seep in, a heavy air of doubt and sadness.

All of this money we're pouring into buying a home pushes back our family building timeline substantially. I know we'll grow, I know we'll fill that third room. But now we have to wait even longer. Life happens. You make the best decisions you can in each moment. I know I can't live my life wanting for the future or weeping for the past. Life must be lived in the moment. I get that. I know that. Logical Keiko totally understands that 100%.

But damn if it doesn't just knock you down to your knees with worry and hesitation, the wind sucked clear out of your lungs and you find your self clawing at the air just to breathe.

"And room to grow..." This empty room we don't even have yet. This room whose descriptor lingers unresolved, hinting wryly at possibility but laced with uncertainty - hanging uncomfortably, the sentence unfinished and trailing off into the unknown.

I know we'll get there. I know it is going to be a hell of a lot harder and more expensive than we ever thought it would be. I know it's going to take time. I know I have to be strong. I have to be hopeful. I have to be positive. I have to live in the moment. I have to focus on what's in front of me and making it through each day before I can worry about ten tomorrows from now.

But sometimes I need to feel afraid. I need to feel sad. I need to feel like there isn't hope for a few moments, let all of those demons and grief fill the empty room in my head. I let them rush in like banshees and spirits and spectres.

And then I cast them out.

The room is empty, quiet again for a bit, waiting to be filled.


Photo by Christian Kadluba via Flickr.