As our two kids got older, we became smarter, and then thrilled when they asked us for advice on choosing first apartments—one in New York City, the other in Denver, Colorado.
At age 57, I couldn’t help but obsess about their choices, wanting to impart upon them my hard-earned real estate wisdom: location, location, location.
In the end, each chose a place that was more value than location.Frantic about this, I lost sleep over their picks until I woke up to one important fact: we all have a right to learn from our experiences.
Our own first love nest was an ancient rented farmhouse, our backyard literally a stinking cattle feedlot, our entry decorated with three fly-covered pest strips fluttering like windsocks above the door.
We were in Heaven
In a let-go-and-let-God moment, I notice a wren singing joyously atop a rotting birdhouse hung from the soffit above our deck—the kids will be fine.