Mary Novaria

The third installment in my series on moving... Ask my husband or my college roommates and they’ll tell you--I’m neither a neatnik nor a clean freak. I often toss my clothes on a chair instead of hanging them in the closet and I generally iron on an as-needed basis. I don’t always make the bed (although I’m happy to rearrange the pillows after my husband does). I’ve probably done my kids a terrible disservice by not insisting on made-up beds before leaving the house in the morning. Please don’t judge me… I remember the battles with my parents to pick up my room. I did a great job shoving things under the bed or behind the closet door, despite my dad’s credo: “A place for everything and everything in its place.” Anything to retain TV privileges or get the car keys. My dad was a great one for sayings. He had a million of them and half were in Latin, like our family motto: Spectemur Agendo . Translation: “Let us be judged by our deeds” . There’s that word: Judge . May I ...

The “For Sale” sign is up. So is my anxiety level as we have now entered real estate limbo. We’re moving… but not yet. We’re living here… but only a while longer. Last time we sold a house, it was on the market for six hellish months. Two things I remember most about that time eighteen years ago: The phone would ring requesting a showing just as I’d strapped our one-year-old into her high chair for dinner … And, I hid baskets of laundry on the far side of our bed, hoping lookers would merely glance into the room and not walk in far enough to see the mounds that accumulated daily with a pre-schooler and a baby. When we finally had an offer, it came from a couple who had come to the Open House the very first week our home was on the market. They’d loved it and spent those months saving for a down payment. Serendipity. The home didn’t sell because it was waiting just for them. As for us, we looked and looked, made a few offers, and had a couple of deals fall through. Then, t...