It's official: (It's our) home, sweet home!

What a day it’s been. After signing title paperwork on Monday and assuming we'd hear something about the mortgage by today at the latest, we finally did this morning—but it wasn't what we'd hoped to hear. Unfortunately, one of the documents showed an incorrect interest rate, meaning we’d have to resign and resubmit it. Plus, the appraiser had either forgotten or not been reminded to go out and take final photos of the house, which he had to do before we could close. Learning all of this just before noon, we figured we'd have at least one more day to wait—another agonizing day. And with tomorrow being Friday, we were afraid that the loan probably wouldn't fund until next week...and Monday was the last day of our rate lock. Missing it meant paying points. So the day began with the clock ticking, and very loudly.

Upon receiving this news, my brilliantly intelligent wife took the bull by the horns and rushed the corrected version of the offending document home for me to sign, then rushed it over to our loan officer just before noon so she could fax it to the mortgage company before lunchtime. Returning home, the pressure got the best of Kelly, but by then, I was over my frustration and figuring heck, if nothing else, a few days' delay would save us some money. In a fashion typical of this entire process, one of us was the yin to the other's yang. We'd just traded places once again. This time, it was my turn to be the optimist.

Once Kelly finished feeding Zienna and headed back, we hunkered down to wait once again. So we waited. And waited. And waited. I had asked Kelly to call our realtor, John, to ask that he let us know immediately if he heard anything. When I found out she had misunderstood me and not called, I decided not to call either. Better just to be patient, I figured. But there was no denying that I was feeling restless, so I packed up the kids to get out of the house.

Almost automatically, I drove up to the house for the umpteen millionth time under the guise of checking whether the fence was finished. I got there and found that it was, and I was about to take pictures for Kelly when I spotted our project manager emerging from the house next door doing a final walkthrough with our hopefully-soon-to-be neighbors. Feeling self-conscious for sitting in front of the house yet again, I drove off, pictureless. I felt silly and petty, and I decided to go do something productive to keep my mind off things.

As I headed off to do so, my phone rang. It was Kelly. I answered, not knowing what to expect. When I did, she cut right to the chase: Running the document over had worked, and the loan had funded. Great, I said, but what did that mean in terms of what came next? She said she wasn’t sure. So in spite of this good news, we were still back to square one (or at very best, two), wondering when everything would be processed. Double ugh.

As the kids and I took care of some things that actually needed my attention, I began to feel a bit better. Being productive was helping. And it must have brought good karma, too, because just as we were headed home, my phone rang. It was Kelly again. Hearing the animation in her voice, I started jumping to conclusions, and they were correct: The deal was done. Signed, sealed and delivered. Head to the house, she told me, because she was meeting John there to get the keys. I couldn’t believe it, even as I rushed to meet her. The wait was finally over.

Ever since Zach could talk, we’d been telling him that we wanted to buy a house. Every time an overly-extravagant purchase request came up, we told him (and later Zoë) that it would have to wait, because we wanted to buy a house. And every time the kids complained about some aspect of rental life, we told them it would all get better if we could just buy a house. Finally, after years of waiting, we were delivering on our promise. And frankly, we were doing so in pretty grand fashion. We were buying that house. And we were buying one that we’d all be happy in for years to come, our own piece of clay to mold any way we wished to.

I did my best to express these sentiments to Zach on the way to the house, and I think he understood the gist of it. Later, I’d try to do the same to Zoë, who for the moment was still back at preschool. And as for Zienna, even if she could have understood, there was no need to explain to her, as this would be, mercifully, only her second home, a far cry from Zach’s tenth.

Seeing Kelly and John in front of the house as we approached, I could hardly contain myself. I still couldn’t believe what was happening, but I did my best to do so. Once inside the house, I walked through it in a fog, inspecting it as if it were my first time being there, which was particularly odd since I’d just gone over the place with a fine-toothed comb on Friday during our walkthrough. But this time, it was different. It was ours. Not a place that the bank might let us live in, but ours. And knowing that felt so good, I couldn’t believe it.

Knowing we had to pick up Zoë, we had to rush a bit, but after all, I could only open and close doors and run my hands over the tile so many times. We thanked John, of whom we’ve become very fond, and parted ways, then quickly headed home so we could pick up Zoë and head out for a celebratory dinner. Without much discussion, we agreed on Chevy’s for the event, where we dined in high spirits, still not entirely conscious of the day’s events. And then we headed back to the house with Zoë, the entire home-owning family, to take a tour and soak up the feeling one more time while it was still fresh. And what a fine feeling it was.

Heading back to the dreaded apartment, knowing we’d not be moving for another week, was bittersweet. But at least this time, we knew the end was in sight. The prize was ours. The Chinese water torture would end soon. And that house, the one we’d been dreaming about for months, was ours. Suddenly, the apartment and the awful neighborhood became more bearable. All of it, from the cramped quarters to the smashed booze bottles on the sidewalk. And we all breathed a sigh of relief—even the kids, who asked to turn in early.

It was a grand night for the Hamilton clan. The first of many, I suspect. Our shared goal attained, each of us realized in our own capacity that the risks and challenges of the past eight months had paid off and that from here on out, the rose-colored glass we’d been hoping for was about to take over our world.