While I’ve never been a very superstitious person, per say, I definitely believe you should be careful about what you put into the universe.

Like if you really, really want something, you probably shouldn’t tell everyone. Or anyone, maybe. Because you’ll somehow jinx yourself with your wanting. A big job interview? A promotion? A vacation? A project slated to finally move forward?

Keep your lips zipped. Summon your patience. Wait.

So now I’m being all intentionally vague, friends, and that’s annoying. I’ve had so many thoughts cluttering my brain lately and not being able to write about them — in some form — is making me crazy.

For the sake of clarity I’ll just put out there that no, I’m not pregnant — the go-to question for newlyweds — but it does involve a potential “addition” of sorts for us! Just, you know, not of the child variety.

Oh, all right. This is getting silly, right?

Okay.

We’re looking at houses.

There. That’s not so scary to write, right?

Except . . . it is.

I feel like I’ve just revealed a terrible, dirty, change-your-opinion-of-me-forever secret.

In fact, I don’t know that I want to publish this post.

(But you’re reading it, so I guess I bit the bullet.)

I think my hesitancy stems from that you’ll jinx yourself! mentality I’ve harbored since childhood: that if you reveal your hopes, they’ll be dashed. So funnel those hopes into a glass and put that glass inside a safe with only one key. Palm the key, or hide the key, and wait. Don’t breathe a word until you’ve got a sure thing.

But nothing in life is a “sure thing,” right?

Nothing.

And definitely nothing in real estate.

But my stomach is churning because . . . well, because I fell for a house.

I told myself I wouldn’t. I’ve lectured Spence from the beginning to not get “emotionally attached” to any of the properties we’ve seen, and then what do I do?

I attach myself.

I couldn’t help it.

I see us in this house — the first time that’s happened. Christmases and Halloweens and Easters. Bookcases and family dinners, fires in the fireplace and movies on Friday nights. I smell chocolate chip cookies on the counter, the warm pine of our first real Christmas tree, fresh flowers on the table. I see the two of us becoming the three of us, then the four of us.

And to shape that wanting — to write out this desire and put it into the universe — feels terrifying.

Yet, here I am.

A writer to the core.

Worrying about “the next step.” About finances. About the future. About everything.

But excited, too.

I haven’t wanted to tell anyone about the house hunt because I don’t want to come back with bad news. I don’t want to have to write a sad post, a bummed footnote, and tell you that our dream home actually belongs to someone else. That my wishing alone could not make it so.

But we don’t always get what we want. We all know that.

And if we don’t get the house, we’ll be fine. We’ll find another, just as so many families before us have done — do every day. We’ll pick ourselves up and start again. Find another dream home. Fall in love again.

Like life.

But until then . . . we’ll think positive. Hold our breath. Just wait and see.

Whatever will be . . . will be.