|At least SOMEONE'S sleeping like a baby.|
This house has turned me into a Nervous Nellie and a Doubting Thomas.
Whenever something new is opened up (the floor, a pipe, a line of credit), I fully expect that something "surprising" will happen. A rat's nest will be exposed. We'll all discover that there is actually no "foundation" to this place. Little things like that.
And when people estimate that a job will take two days ("three days, tops"), I no longer believe them. Besides, if each person lining up for their turn takes the allotted two/three days, I'm pretty sure we'll be playing Contractor-Go-Round well into the girls' adulthood. Because I do not believe that this home will ever be done with exploding on us.
"Homes are never really done," Experienced Homeowners frequently tell me. And I realize this. But I'm pretty sure relative "doneness" doesn't usually equate with major house catastrophes.
And I no longer want to be the Blue Ribbon standard for worst home ever. It sorta hurts the morale, you know?
We had a really nice weekend with P.J.'s sister, niece, and parents for Katy's 11th birthday. It was actually pretty terrific to get to take the weekend "off" from sporadically mopping/moving/sobbing and get to play tour guide. I did feel pretty awful, however, about the fact that our home stunk like an outhouse and the downstairs bathroom may as well have had crime scene tape across it. (I swear I am a decent wife to your boy, Schoenies.)
The jackhammering currently shaking my computer (and Susannah's chubby cheeks- sorry, Zuzu) punctuates the fact that my brain is full of irrational little marbles. It could also be the lack of sleep, however. I keep falling asleep only to wake up each hour with those annoying little half-awake nightmares.
Susannah fell down under the house in one.
Nora was covered in sewage in another.
The cats were- inexplicably- on the ceiling, making it all too Trainspotting-y for me.
In each scenario, I am completely unable to save anyone or help anything. And it doesn't take Freud to dissect the anxieties behind these dreams- but it does make for an exhausted next day. And when I'm tired, I cry. And when I cry, contractors feel UNCOMFORTABLE. And then I stay up late feeling anxious about how I'm stressing out the contractors. It's a vicious cycle.
But- to the best of my knowledge- this is not the end of the world. Sure, a huge chunk of my house no longer exists, but the girls are healthy. (Covered in concrete dust and breathing in methane, but healthy as smallish horses.) So far, our insurance has decided to play nicely with the whopping costs that keep piling on. And P.J. has not yet left me.
It could be a lot worse.
It could smell a lot better, but it could be a lot worse.