You find a tool hiding inside a wall and you can’t remember which project led to its being dropped down there.
Yesterday The Boy started taking out sheet rock – both walls and ceiling – in the lower level bathroom project. He uncovered this paddle bit, and assumed that it was one lost when he and his father were running internet cable to the bedrooms upstairs right after he started high school, six years ago.
A text to his father started a disagreement. The Husband said it was from when he replaced the wall oven in our ground level kitchen (when our oldest, 24 years old now, was only three).
Nope, replied The Boy – couldn’t be that because it was in the wrong wall.
Kitchen demolition and re-do, eight years ago? No way – we didn’t do anything inside that wall for the kitchen project.
How about the upstairs bathroom reno project, ten years ago?
Demolition continues today. By the time I get home the walls should be down to studs, and the shower stall on its way to the dump. The three of us at home right now are doing a great job of co-existing cooperatively. The Boy creates chaos in the basement, Middle Sister cooks our meals, and I’ll head home early to mow our Serengeti-like lawn before the next wave of showers and storms hits our area.
It all serves to remind me how much I love our home. We’ve put our blood, sweat, and tears into it over the years – not to mention tons of time and whatever money we could scrape up. When I was a kid our family moved every two or three years due to job transfers and the separation, divorce, and re-marriage of my parents. No place ever really felt like home.
This house we’ve lived and loved in for 27 years, as worn and tatty as it might be, is home.