People say newborns and sleep are mutually exclusive, but I can say that the horror of house hunting with babies on board is a close contender for doing your head in.
In the back of an old notebook, I recently found notes which recorded the time and duration of each breastfeed for my newborn baby. Which side I fed from, and for how long: 10.31am L 15 R17 12.45am L22 R15 And inevitably 1.33am, 5.04am etc. At the front of the notebook, I had recorded the upcoming inspection and auction times for houses for sale: Thornbury, 15 Wales St 12.30-1 Northcote, 23 Derby St 1-1.30 Fairfield, 9 Gillies St 1.45-2.15 North Fitzroy, 35 Miller St etc etc repeat for 18 months of Saturdays.
Weekend after weekend, we drove tired, hungry, poopy-pants babies in concentric rings around our northern suburbs, in search of a home with more than a lean-to for a kitchen, and a curtain for a bathroom door. In those days, the budget was sitting around $600-$750,000, and those prices were realistic. Although the North Fitzroy prices were already getting a little out of hand, to be honest.
In the days before real estate apps, the broadsheet Age was a vital tool in our weekend treks. Sure, there were online real estate sites too, but the listings of open for inspection times by suburb were invaluable in our planning. There was still time for the morning stove-top coffee brew, and a spot of gardening in the veggie patch, then it was ‘load ‘em up’ and off for hours and hours of house inspections and auctions.
On occasion, the day would include two potential auctions where we planned to bid, in amongst the other open for inspections. With our Section 32s in hand, and our rudimentary knowledge of sale of land contracts, we traipsed from suburb to suburb, stopping to change nappies and feed the kids with breastmilk, rusks and rice crackers.
In North Fitzroy, we bid on a double-fronted brick Edwardian with a delightful Greek inspired outdoor kitchen in the garage, until the kid cracked it and we had to walk away. In Swift St, Thornbury we battled nerves about a dodgy Probate clause in the contract, yet still bid up to our limit for the chance at the triple-fronted yellow brick beauty. Oh, that original kitchen, I still yearn for you. In Fairfield, the kids cracked it at a deceased estate, and we walked their screaming bodies from the scene, our nervous bidding hands unbidden.
One day, at the top of a hill in Mansfield St, Thornbury, we waited for a magnificent old house to be auctioned. The land was generous, the house unrenovated, the verandah inviting, the bones good and the garden glorious in its wildness. The kids were at their fourth or fifth property for the day, and we had that nervous energy that meant we were close to purchasing, just to save us from more torment.
The auction started, and continued, and continued, and meandered, and went through silences, and back-tracked, and questioned, and continued. We had the dreaded first time auctioneer. He sputtered and over-explained, he doubted and discussed his tactics, he considered the merits of his own vendor bids, he dissembled and refocussed and asked more questions and thanked his uncle for the opportunity to start his real estate career and he marvelled at the sunny day...and one of the kids started screaming. It was too much. The three year old began howling, arching his back and moaning, throwing his body in distress and exhaustion-it was exactly how I felt! The cries continued, inconsolable, and we walked from Mansfield Street back to the car, checked the nappies, strapped them into carseats and drove home. No doubt it was time for me to breastfeed the baby, anyway.
Later that night we drove past, to see the SOLD sticker on the board outside the house that could have been ours. I was devastated. I drove past the next day, and the sticker was gone. In a futile attempt to rearrange fate, I called the real estate company, hoping that the sale had fallen through. Sadly, it was simply a case of not enough glue. The sale had stuck even if the sticker had not.
Not long after all this, we quietly bought a house in an unknown, faraway suburb on the other side of the river. They had open for inspections on Sundays there, in the land south of the river. There was no auction, just a quiet private sale, where we paid too much for a house too small, and made our move in stunned submission. Once the boxes were unpacked, we looked around and realised the house was so small, we’d soon need to move!
These days, we have apps to manage all our inspections and can email queries about prices to the agents. No more notebooks filed with dates and times, and I’m no longer breastfeeding, so my days are not quite so numbered. Though I have to say, the memories of our mapped out lives in search of a home still haunt me.
(c) Anna Sublet 2016
First published 19 April 2016 in Domain
Republished 19 April 2016 in Essential Kids
In the back of an old notebook, I recently found notes which recorded the time and duration of each breastfeed for my newborn baby. Which side I fed from, and for how long: 10.31am L 15 R17 12.45am L22 R15 And inevitably 1.33am, 5.04am etc. At the front of the notebook, I had recorded the upcoming inspection and auction times for houses for sale: Thornbury, 15 Wales St 12.30-1 Northcote, 23 Derby St 1-1.30 Fairfield, 9 Gillies St 1.45-2.15 North Fitzroy, 35 Miller St etc etc repeat for 18 months of Saturdays.
Weekend after weekend, we drove tired, hungry, poopy-pants babies in concentric rings around our northern suburbs, in search of a home with more than a lean-to for a kitchen, and a curtain for a bathroom door. In those days, the budget was sitting around $600-$750,000, and those prices were realistic. Although the North Fitzroy prices were already getting a little out of hand, to be honest.
In the days before real estate apps, the broadsheet Age was a vital tool in our weekend treks. Sure, there were online real estate sites too, but the listings of open for inspection times by suburb were invaluable in our planning. There was still time for the morning stove-top coffee brew, and a spot of gardening in the veggie patch, then it was ‘load ‘em up’ and off for hours and hours of house inspections and auctions.
On occasion, the day would include two potential auctions where we planned to bid, in amongst the other open for inspections. With our Section 32s in hand, and our rudimentary knowledge of sale of land contracts, we traipsed from suburb to suburb, stopping to change nappies and feed the kids with breastmilk, rusks and rice crackers.
In North Fitzroy, we bid on a double-fronted brick Edwardian with a delightful Greek inspired outdoor kitchen in the garage, until the kid cracked it and we had to walk away. In Swift St, Thornbury we battled nerves about a dodgy Probate clause in the contract, yet still bid up to our limit for the chance at the triple-fronted yellow brick beauty. Oh, that original kitchen, I still yearn for you. In Fairfield, the kids cracked it at a deceased estate, and we walked their screaming bodies from the scene, our nervous bidding hands unbidden.
One day, at the top of a hill in Mansfield St, Thornbury, we waited for a magnificent old house to be auctioned. The land was generous, the house unrenovated, the verandah inviting, the bones good and the garden glorious in its wildness. The kids were at their fourth or fifth property for the day, and we had that nervous energy that meant we were close to purchasing, just to save us from more torment.
The auction started, and continued, and continued, and meandered, and went through silences, and back-tracked, and questioned, and continued. We had the dreaded first time auctioneer. He sputtered and over-explained, he doubted and discussed his tactics, he considered the merits of his own vendor bids, he dissembled and refocussed and asked more questions and thanked his uncle for the opportunity to start his real estate career and he marvelled at the sunny day...and one of the kids started screaming. It was too much. The three year old began howling, arching his back and moaning, throwing his body in distress and exhaustion-it was exactly how I felt! The cries continued, inconsolable, and we walked from Mansfield Street back to the car, checked the nappies, strapped them into carseats and drove home. No doubt it was time for me to breastfeed the baby, anyway.
Later that night we drove past, to see the SOLD sticker on the board outside the house that could have been ours. I was devastated. I drove past the next day, and the sticker was gone. In a futile attempt to rearrange fate, I called the real estate company, hoping that the sale had fallen through. Sadly, it was simply a case of not enough glue. The sale had stuck even if the sticker had not.
Not long after all this, we quietly bought a house in an unknown, faraway suburb on the other side of the river. They had open for inspections on Sundays there, in the land south of the river. There was no auction, just a quiet private sale, where we paid too much for a house too small, and made our move in stunned submission. Once the boxes were unpacked, we looked around and realised the house was so small, we’d soon need to move!
These days, we have apps to manage all our inspections and can email queries about prices to the agents. No more notebooks filed with dates and times, and I’m no longer breastfeeding, so my days are not quite so numbered. Though I have to say, the memories of our mapped out lives in search of a home still haunt me.
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| Cross town, Northcote to Elwood. Image Anna Sublet. |
(c) Anna Sublet 2016
First published 19 April 2016 in Domain
Republished 19 April 2016 in Essential Kids
This is so interesting! I find it fascinating how things go together that you wouldn't imagine and you can look back on times and be surprised by it. I guess we are always juggling a number of things. I bet you are stoked you kept and then found your notebook. What an awesome time capsule.
ReplyDeleteThanks Laura, yes I am thrilled at finding such a time capsule-perfect expression. I am quite a hoarder of paper fragments, though my partner suggested I must chuck some old stuff, which I did, and always regret (especially the 80s rugby jumper that he suggested I toss-sniff!) I also love maps, and train lines, and markers like that. Thanks so much for reading and commenting. It's always lovely to have an interaction on my little, unknown blog!
DeleteOh Anna, I can relate to all that, although we only had one child with us when house hunting. Clearly remember The Age being scoured each weekend and potential homes circled and co-ordinating inspections with feed times. And my breath caught a little at Mansfield Street - we lived in Flinders Street! We could have been neighbours!! Now we live in your old childhood neighbourhood - remember that from a previous post of yours!
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