Mary Claire is not happy about showing our house. She’s more than a little unnerved by the knowledge that people are going to walk through her room, see her toys, possibly lick her toothbrush.
“Are they going to touch my stuff?” she asks constantly. “Will they open my drawers? Will they read my books? Will they sit on my bed?”
And we very calmly explain to her that there’s no need for concern — that everyone who comes through our house will be accompanied by a professional realtor, that they won’t have free reign to use our toilets or grab a snack from our pantry.
“But what about my stuff?” she continues to ask. “I don’t want them touching my things.”
I’m not sure who she’s imagining walking through her room, but it obviously resembles some kind of grunting, dirty, three-headed abomination.
“Honey,” I finally relented, “don’t worry about your things. At worst, they’ll only read your diary. And kiss your Justin Bieber posters, and undress your American Girl dolls. And they’ll probably test Sam’s deodorant and try on George’s underwear and eat Gus’s hidden stash of beef jerky.”
I think that quelled her fears. She seems much more comfortable with the situation now.