“I’m the son, home from college…”
1.8.09
We’ve had our house up for sale since the middle of August because it’s just more space than we use, now that Sean lives on campus. But, given the tailspin that the national economy in general — and the housing market in particular — have been in during this time, let’s just say that there haven’t been a whole lot of folks parading through it.
Yesterday, though, we received a call that a couple would like to see it today. The low interest thus far had lulled us into complacency, so we weren’t entirely ready — which is a wee understatement.
After being home over the holidays, this week Alex began another marathon travel period, so he’s not home to show the house. (We’re FSBOing it, so it isn’t one of those things where we take off while the prospective buyers walk through with a realtor.) I’m at work; Claire is at school; and even Ginger is off at doggie daycare — not that a dog is very good at showing a house anyway. So that leaves Sean.
He’ll be the guy who lets the people in, shows them around briefly, and then tries to look nonchalant and disinterested while they wander off on their own to really dig into whatever cupboards or closets or furnace crannies they care to explore. Then they’ll either extol the virtues of our home or mentally burn it to the ground.
Sean is an intelligent guy, but he’s never done anything like this, so we did a little role-play last night. I pretended to be the prospective buyer, and he greeted me at the door. We decided that he’d shake hands and self-identify with a line something like, “I’m the son, home from college…”
Thinking about those words gave me pause: he is my son, home from college. That means he doesn’t live here anymore, and he never will live here again, except for a few of these last few, and thus precious, breaks or summer vacations. And moving away from this house — whenever that happens — will not affect him nearly as much as it will Claire.
“I’m the son, home from college…” Hearing it struck me as one of those memorable moments when the completely obvious sinks in just a little bit more than it had before, and its solid reality catches you off your guard.
Then we walked around as though Sean was showing me the layout, and we batted around what to say at various points — make a little joke about all the papers I had to quickly pile up in Alex’s home office, but don’t be too apologetic otherwise; don’t focus on the furnace room or garage if you don’t have to, but do point out the sauna; and don’t comment on why we still have a pot of frozen tarragon (or sage or rosemary or whatever it is that Alex planted) sitting on the deck, or why there’s still a garden hose coiled around the table and chairs on the deck, now half buried in snow. (See? I told you we weren’t exactly ready, and there’s only so much one can do to prepare in one evening before you give up and figure, “It is what it is.”)
Whether Sean handles his duties as spokesmodel well or not so well, it certainly won’t make the difference between a sale or not… but I’m very proud of him and his confidence at handling this. I can’t wait to see how it turns out.
Yesterday, though, we received a call that a couple would like to see it today. The low interest thus far had lulled us into complacency, so we weren’t entirely ready — which is a wee understatement.
After being home over the holidays, this week Alex began another marathon travel period, so he’s not home to show the house. (We’re FSBOing it, so it isn’t one of those things where we take off while the prospective buyers walk through with a realtor.) I’m at work; Claire is at school; and even Ginger is off at doggie daycare — not that a dog is very good at showing a house anyway. So that leaves Sean.
He’ll be the guy who lets the people in, shows them around briefly, and then tries to look nonchalant and disinterested while they wander off on their own to really dig into whatever cupboards or closets or furnace crannies they care to explore. Then they’ll either extol the virtues of our home or mentally burn it to the ground.
Sean is an intelligent guy, but he’s never done anything like this, so we did a little role-play last night. I pretended to be the prospective buyer, and he greeted me at the door. We decided that he’d shake hands and self-identify with a line something like, “I’m the son, home from college…”
Thinking about those words gave me pause: he is my son, home from college. That means he doesn’t live here anymore, and he never will live here again, except for a few of these last few, and thus precious, breaks or summer vacations. And moving away from this house — whenever that happens — will not affect him nearly as much as it will Claire.
“I’m the son, home from college…” Hearing it struck me as one of those memorable moments when the completely obvious sinks in just a little bit more than it had before, and its solid reality catches you off your guard.
Then we walked around as though Sean was showing me the layout, and we batted around what to say at various points — make a little joke about all the papers I had to quickly pile up in Alex’s home office, but don’t be too apologetic otherwise; don’t focus on the furnace room or garage if you don’t have to, but do point out the sauna; and don’t comment on why we still have a pot of frozen tarragon (or sage or rosemary or whatever it is that Alex planted) sitting on the deck, or why there’s still a garden hose coiled around the table and chairs on the deck, now half buried in snow. (See? I told you we weren’t exactly ready, and there’s only so much one can do to prepare in one evening before you give up and figure, “It is what it is.”)
Whether Sean handles his duties as spokesmodel well or not so well, it certainly won’t make the difference between a sale or not… but I’m very proud of him and his confidence at handling this. I can’t wait to see how it turns out.
