Sell, Sell, Sell!

I've mentioned before that we are selling our house in San Jose. So far, lots of traffic, lots of interest, no offers. Except of the advice variety, as in "If only you had put it on the market two months ago!" Yes, yes, thanks. We get it. Smile, nod, don't hit. Repeat as necessary.

But at 5:30 today I got a call from our agent saying that the agent of a very interested couple wanted to come by for a quick walk through.

In the week since we've been back from vacation, I've managed to get the whole make-the-house-perfect-and get-out-in-20-minutes thing down to a science. Every morning, the beds are made immediately. The coffee maker, toaster and blender are returned to the garage as soon as we're done with them. Charlotte's high chair is wiped down and stashed in the garage after every meal. The floors are spot cleaned, except on open house days when I get out the bucket and rags and wash every inch of non-carpeted floor. Argus eats outside and any resulting mess is promptly removed. The mail gets stacked neatly in the microwave--yes, the microwave. Really, my inner obsessive compulsive is in heaven, but it's very hard on the girls, especially Hannah.

I had a really good feeling about this past weekend, that someone was going to make an offer, so I slacked off a bit on the cleaning. But after a very long morning of deafening silence, I decided, "What the hell. I'm going to make a lasagna." This is no small thing when you're trying to sell a house. People want aromatherapy: vanilla or cinnamon or freshly baked cookies. Not the onions and garlic lightly sauteed in olive oil with a bit of salt and cumin that form the beginning of my secret lasagna sauce. Secret because it's never the same twice; even I don't know what went into it last time. But again, I digress.

I had just assembled the lasagna when Kelly called with the info about the agent who wanted to come by. I apologized in advance for the lasagna smell and then went immediately into staging mode. Wipe down all counters. Sweep floor. Tidy playroom. Don't mention plans to Hannah because she will do her best to thwart said plans. Run upstairs and down, turning on all the lights, opening all the windows (really, I feel like Wee Willy Winkey here). Come to a screeching halt outside the upstairs bathroom when I step in, and then notice, a small puddle on the floor. And droplets leading away from the puddle to a small person hiding behind the door with her hands over her ears.

"Hannah! Did you pee on the floor??"

"No! But my big-girl panties are wet."

"Did you pee in your panties?"

I am rewarded with a sniffle and a nod.

The clock is tick, tick, ticking.

Fifteen minutes until the agent shows up and I am on my knees dabbing frantically at the little drops that form a trail from the bathroom through the hall and into the bedroom.

She's been so good lately with the potty-training. One accident in over a month. Why Now?? No time to wonder--just get it clean and get out.

We made it. Just as I was getting ready to put the girls into the stroller, the agent--John--showed up. We took Argus and walked around the block while he checked out the house. When he was done, he drove by, stopping to let us know that he was done, that the lasagna smelled wonderful, and that he would call Kelly later. He asked about the roof and the solar panels (for the water heater) but said nothing about the little accident upstairs. He also was kind enough to refrain from mentioning the one thing I didn't notice: the huge . . . present that Argus left on the back lawn.

I can't wait to have this over. We're all going a little batty.