Now, believe it or not, the particular hellishness of the whole thing has nothing to do with sentimentality and the fact that they are selling my childhood home. It does, however, have everything to do with the house showings.
For those not familiar with the concept, a house showing is pretty much what it sounds like. Potential buyers come through with a realtor to take a look, and the owner and their family disappear for about an hour so this can go down. Oh, and the place has to be spotlessly clean. These showings are usually pretty early in the morning, and my mom -- quite eager to sell the house -- takes them very seriously. The results are as follows:
So yeah... that, except for like, twice a week for several months.
And that's why I don't live at home anymore.