30

30 has become a very important number in my life. It's how old the Huz was when we found out we'd have to sell his truck, because "the Shop" couldn't pay for it anymore, and we couldn't assume the huge ass payments on our own (ok, seriously, WHY were the payments on a stock F150 over $500 a month? Anyone? Anyone?) 30 is the number of years we had on our fixed-APR home loan. And, heres the kicker, 30 is how old I'll be when we file for bankruptcy and short-sale our house. We've finally come to the realization (after being dragged to there kicking and biting, and having our faces shoved in it) that we are so upside-down on our house that we can't refinance, and we can no longer afford the payments. Ok, a little truth here....we've never been able to afford the payments. We thought we could. We thought "hey, we'll just pay the balloon payment for the first year or two, so we can start our savings and buy some fun new things, and then we'll start paying the full payment every month." That was a little over 2 years ago. We've been NOT buying "fun new things", and are still barely able to make our minimum mortgage payment every month.

On Sunday, we headed to our broker's office, somehow having convinced ourselves that we would be able to qualify for something, even if it only landed us in a condo or something. Well, you can start pointing and laughing now, because we were basically told that, not only would no one touch our loan with a ten-foot pole, but we were so far in debt that our only hope would be to declare bankruptcy, short-sale the house, and rent an apartment somewhere for a few years. I would have given anything to not have to watch the Huz's face as we heard that news. He feels like he's failed as a father and husband. I feel like a tool for not being able to convince him that we got into this mess to-ge-ther.

It's funny - I've hated our house from day zero. I hate the neighborhood, the neighbors (well, most of them at least), the gross park across the street.....EVERYTHING. And yet I cry every time I think of leaving the house. If we were just selling it, I'd be thrilled! But walking away from it? It's killing me. Lyla came home to this house! The Huz and I decorated her room together, and worried that the ceiling fan wasn't exactly centered (it wasn't....and I made him move it). She learned to crawl in the living room, and used to take naps on the floor with the dogs (supervised, of COURSE - gimme at least a LITTLE credit here, peeps!) Granted, ALL of my sentimentality with this house is linked to Lyla. The Huz and I had fun before she came along, but those memories weren't quite as sacred as the one's we've made since becoming a party of 3. And I know she'll never remember any of this. But still. It's crushing to realize that, no matter how much I hated something, it was MINE to hate, and now it's not going to be mine anymore. Which, of course, makes me love it. Why is that? It's like when some joke of a guy breaks up with you, and you suddenly forget why you hated him so much, and can only remember the good times you had together. And then you suddenly want him back more than anything else in the world. Although, if this is anything like that, if someone were to tell us "ok, well, you can keep the house afterall" we'd probably be stammering our way out the door, saying "oh, well, um, thanks and all, but, well, it's like this.....slam!" We'd be running down that ghetto black-asphalt driveway so fast people would think a new all-you-can-eat restaurant was opening up. The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence, right? Except the side of the fence that we're on....we couldn't afford to water our lawn anymore. So the grass on our side is dead. Brown, crispy, and dead.