Two seconds after learning I was pregnant with my second child, we put our townhome up for sale. Aside from the fact that our family was growing and we needed more space, we were so totally over sharing walls with the hard-partying 20-something boys on our right who were hooking up with the 20-something girls on our left. Being sandwiched between so much Panic! At The Disco and bong water wasn’t nearly as fun as you think it might be.
If you didn’t already know, 2007 was a weird time for real estate; inventory was low and prices were sky high.
After searching high and low, being outbid at least a half dozen times, and fearing the worst (read: moving home with my parents), a miracle happened. I was finally first to see a house just listed on the market. It was lovely. It was the house. I felt it in my bones. This house that had everything I ever wanted and only one thing I didn’t: stairs. I hate stairs. But because my pregnant body told me this two-story house was where we were supposed to live, I wasn’t about to let 14 inconvenient aerobic steps stand in the way of single family home ownership. Stairs, shmairs…right?
Wrong. Stairs are a big freaking deal. They are so much more than a specific number of aerobic steps.
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