Moving and renovating is hard, ya’all! We’ve been working on ours for 15 months!
This means for 15 months I’ve been holding my breathe and watching my tongue and screaming things into pillows that I didn’t want anyone to hear. I’ve ignored my children and spent one too many nice summer days stuck indoors trying to sand spackled ripples off the walls. I’ve eaten WAY too much fast food and have not drunk nearly enough alcohol to get through this ordeal. I’ve cried and cried and cried and once threatened to punch my husband in the balls in the middle of Menards. No one seemed to notice which, to me, means they hear a lot of comments like that from married couples in the Lighting section. But we made it through. After 15 months, we are moved in!
How moved in? Well, currently, the walls are lined with boxes that I have opened, looked down into and said, “Why did we even pack this?” Then I closed them back up and left them on the wall. The beds are up. The bedding is lost. The kitchen is mostly unpacked and put away, but I keep changing my mind where I want things. So about 100 times a day I have this conversation, “Mom, there’s no bowls.”
“I moved them to the 2nd cabinet on the right next to the fridge.”
“That’s full of coffee mugs.”
“The next one over!”
“That’s full of Tupperware!”
“THE NEXT ONE OVER ON THE OTHER SIDE!”
“Never mind. I’ll just grab a granola bar.”
Every window (all 45 of them) has a shade or curtain or both except for the one in the downstairs bathroom. I have no excuse for this, other than my irrational fear that if I buy any more shades or curtains or both, my soul will be crushed for all eternity. That may seem dramatic, but every time I’m at the store where I can purchase a new shade or curtain, my chest tightens and I feel nauseous, I get cold and can see dead people. So I buy light bulbs instead and get the hell out of there. It’s all fine, except this also means I can’t shower downstairs. Or pee. And when I do pee downstairs (cause who really wants to climb the steps 10 times a day) instead of enjoying the ecstasy of release, I’m hunched over trying to cover all my bits while nervously gaping out the window like a fugitive. This doesn’t make much sense because the window is beveled so all you can see on the other side is dark globs, but it doesn’t matter. I just know someone is using a drone or some sort of see-through-beveled-glass technology to ogle my goodies! Perhaps if I tell my husband this, he will just gift me the damn shade for our anniversary, but I’m guessing he’ll just roll his eyes.
The kids have made new friends in the neighborhood, which is nice. They’ve also discovered the asshole in the neighborhood. She’s a cranky lady who shakes her fist and screams “Stay off my property! I’m gonna call the cops on you!” That actually happened. My horrible, rotten, deviant son hopped the fence to retrieve a wayward Nerf Ball from her yard. Did he trample her flowers? Mess up the fence? Walk around the house and peak in her beveled windows? No. He just grabbed his ball and hopped back over. She could have just told him, “I’d rather you not jump the fence.” or she could have come speak to me about it. She didn’t need to threaten to call the police. That scared him to death! In our old neighborhood, my son was the one who helped all our elderly neighbors with various chores and tasks. He made people smile and laugh and always said, “Good morning” or “How are you today?” as he walked past. In this neighborhood he’s a juvenile delinquent. I told him next time he loses a toy over the fence to knock on her door and ask if he (or she) can get it. This seems very adult of me, but really I’m just hoping the kids will bug her so much that she’ll move to Texas. “Who wants to play Ultimate Frisbee!?!?”
Our other neighbors are really sweet people who say things like, “It’s so refreshing to have children in the neighborhood.” and “I tell everyone you’d never know you even have kids, they’re so quiet!” These people are old and can’t hear the blood-curdling screams from my backyard. And I’m okay with that.
We’ve lived here a month now, and I gotta say the best part of all this is our house feels like home. All our hard work and the screaming into pillows and the violent empty threats I shrieked at my wonderful, patient, pain-in-the-ass husband, it’s all paid off. We’re so happy here. Tired, exhausted, a bit cranky and confused, but so freakin’ happy it hurts.