Monday morning my wife and I signed the papers. Forty-eight hours later Hannah, my oldest daughter, reminded us of what we had done. "Daddy, we are lucky, our house is on sale."
A quick glance revealed the fuel for my daughter's smile; a Galloway Real Estate sign had been posted and I thought to myself, they work on the 4th of July...
Moving is something we've been talking about for a while, but it never felt necessary, until recently. My daughters (Hannah and Leah) only requirement is that the new house have stairs.
If only it were that easy – at four and five they just don't understand. There are schools to consider, crime rates to analyze , taxes to contend with, fuel sources to compare, styles to debate, in-laws to please, spouses with agendas, and bank accounts to deplete.
Most of the homes we've looked at have strong elementary schools, but less desirable high schools. Leah, my four-year-old, overheard us discussing the possibility of sending her to a private school. "No, I don't want to go to a private school," she said defiantly.
"Why not?" we questioned.
"I don't want to go where girls show their bottoms."
"What?"
"I don't want to go to a school where girls show their bottoms!"
Shared laughter erupted as my wife and I realized that our children only knew private to mean where they go number 1 and 2. Time for an introduction to homophones...
Moments like these make house hunting tolerable, and hopefully by sharing this one with Reader's Digest, I'll make enough to buy one extra stair.
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