Friday 22 February 2013

The C word

I don't like the C word, no, not that C word, although I don't care for that one either. My C word is compromise. In the interests of fairness there are many C words I do like - comfort, contentment, commitment and cake to name but a few, but compromise as a concept, presently I am struggling with.

In my head I think I can compromise, in my head I think I DO compromise, all the live long day, especially with the children. Maybe that's it, maybe I've used up my whole quota of compromise on the children and there's none left for the rest of the world.

Dearest readers, your auntie is trying to buy a house, I am all Zoopla'd and Rightmoved out. This is pushing your aunties ability to compromise to the max. I am fundamentally unsuited to decision making at this level, truthfully, at any level. This is probably why I haven't moved in 13 years and just about every room in my house is the same greyey/pinkey/beigey shade. However I am now married to someone who doesn't find decision making troubling and who's ability to compromise exceeds mine in spades. Clearly if he managed to marry me and accept all that comes with that gig, he is King of Compromise.

King of Compromise is a sensible sort of chap, he doesn't expect to find a 5 bedroomed detached house within walking distance of Market Harborough town centre decorated exactly to our my taste that costs £3.50. He has set a budget, a sensible budget, he is willing to look at each and every house and decide if we he can make it what we I need, you see the theme emerging. I have a huge capacity for wanting things my own way.

He knows that we should downsize, in September for 12 nights out of 14 there will be 3 of us living in this house and 2 of us share a bed. A 4 bedroomed house is more than ample but I would like a 5, so that all of the children have their own room, despite the eldest having her own house! He knows that by downsizing we will be able to retire a bit earlier and have enough money for decent chunks of travelling both before and when we retire, that bit of the plan I am fully signed up to, himself and I are ace at going on trips together. He knows we will need to buy a house that needs work so we can afford the space and location.

I know it's massively important to him to live in a house that has his name on the deeds and I know it's important to us to buy our first home together. I am genuinely, fully up for that part of the plan also. I am quite surprisingly cheerful about buying a wreck and doing it up, I am SO in awe that himself can fix things and rewire and re-plumb and tile and do manly things, I have no skill whatsoever and am massively impressed at his grown up ness and the fact he has 3 tool boxes

When I look at the houses on the internet I think I can live in them, we go and see them, I realise that I have a list as long as your arm about what I can live with, I want a better house than I have now for 2/3 of the price. But I still can't quite get my head around the concept that downsizing means a smaller house, with smaller rooms, when my children are actually getting bigger and have more stuff than ever. However, he can decide and compromise in 5 minutes flat, usually he's put an offer in before I've managed to drive home. Then I get the fear, that they will accept his offer and I will actually have to live in the house that a short while ago I was okay with.

I keep telling myself it's because I haven't found "our" house yet, that somewhere out there, in walking distance of Market Harborough town centre there is someone about to put a 3/4 bedroomed house on the market, just crying out be renovated and decorated in greyey/pinkey/beigey tones.