The electricity has been shut off. The house is completely dark. The electrician began his handy work promptly at 7:30 yesterday morning, and now there are holes in the walls and ceilings. There is plaster dust and sawdust everywhere. And wires poking out. And step ladders reaching up to work that has yet to be done.
There is more work to do at the house. There is always more work. I could have gone in to measure the bathroom walls to figure out how much insulation I need, how many 2x4s. I could have tidied a bit. Could have papered some more shelves in the kitchen. Swept. Taken out some trash. But it will have to wait.
Relief and panic: odd that I can feel both simultaneously. Relief that I get a break - at least from the work. (There is never a break from the endless to-do lists I have rolling around in my head.) But panic, too. The house, at this very moment, is a complete disaster and unliveable: no bathroom, no electricity, walls in pieces. If my crew - and that's what I have working at the house right now - were to abandon me, I would have nothing. My house is only as good as the promise of the work that will be done. I have to rely on Walter the Electrician, Will the Apprentice, Frank the Plasterer, Chase the Plumber and trust that they will do the work. These are the people in my neighbourhood. And while yes, I am paying them for their work, they are part of my community that are making this dream possible. Total strangers.
Then there those who have been part of my life, of my community, for a good long while, who have been pitching in, one way or another. Friends who helped me rip out walls. Who did more than half the plumbing in the house. Who scrubbed a kitchen that hadn't seen soapy water in at least a few years. Who will help me build a wall and insulate it. Who gave me advice on light fixtures. Who let me bounce countless decorating ideas off them. Who give me names of people they trust. Who just very simply, but very importantly, care for me. Who listen to my panic and tell me I've got this.
So for tonight, the house is dark. Gloomy. Unwelcoming. An empty shell. Soon, Walter the Electrician will install those gorgeous light fixtures, and Frank the Plasterer will make my walls beautiful and smooth, and Shane the HVAC specialist will install the new furnace, and my house - the bricks and mortar - will become a home. With a warm glow in the dead of a cold winter. I can just about see it.
Tuesday, 22 October 2013
Tuesday, 8 October 2013
"it's going to be so beautiful!"
Thank goodness for the optimism of a child.
I got the keys to the house yesterday. As I was walking away from the lawyer's office, with the legal-size envelope and its contents - including my new keys - I started to panic a little. It felt exactly the same as the day I visited the house I'm currently renting. That day, nearly two years ago, I walked down the street, having left what seemed like a hole of a house, realising that it was the only thing in the neighbourhood that was affordable, big enough, and available. I nearly had a panic attack. But I got through it by giving myself a pep talk. It's going to be fine. Everything is going to work out. It's good.
Those were the exact same words I whispered to myself yesterday as I walked out with my new keys and the biggest debt load I've ever carried. By the time I got to the bus stop, I was adequately calmed and ready to pick up my girls to go see the house.
It was their first time inside. I had warned them that there are lots of renovations and cleaning up to do, so it doesn't look perfect now. But it will be better before we move in.
We got to the house, I pulled out the key, and turned it in the lock. This is it. No going back. And we went in.
The first thing that hits you is the smell. The entire first floor of the house smells rancid; like an old, sick woman. And it's dark. And the light switches, if they work at all, are fritzy and fiddly (that's knob and tube for ya). And the colours are horrid: a 1950s turquoise in the living room, pink in the dining room, and a sickly yellow in the kitchen. The sticky tiles in the kitchen are coming up, and the cupboards are cheap and ugly.
Upstairs is not much better. The bathroom is at least 60 years old; the floor is mungy, the toilet scary-looking, the sink likely original to the house (80-90 years). The Bean's room, with the sink, has cupboards that need to come out, and that neat sink? The plumbing is wonky. Boo's room looks okay, but the pine floor has been painted - but only along the edges where it's not covered by the cheap roll-out cushion floor. Same for the floor in my room. And both our rooms have skinny closets that are too narrow to hang a hanger.
The windows throughout are original and falling apart. Some don't open. Some open with effort and are hard to close. Some have unattractive and broken roller blinds on them.
And that's all I could see yesterday: the problems, the work, the cost. I felt so defeated in that moment. And then Boo, in her cheery manner said, "it's going to be so beautiful!"
She had heard all the stories I told about what work we were going to have done. She had seen the tile I picked out for the bathroom, and listened to the design ideas I had for it. She knew the floors were going to be restored to gleaming hardwood throughout. She knew that I can work magic with a paintbrush and the right colour and that the kitchen was going to rock, despite its long pedigree. She knew that her room and her sister's were going to be fabulous, just like they are in our current, rented home. She just believed and overwrote the plans onto the current mess, and she saw.
I'm still in a bit of a lingering panic. I don't have all my workers lined up yet - that's my project for this week. I'm not 100 percent certain that it'll all be ready when we move in. Maybe it won't be. But it's livable. Completely and totally livable. With a bit of an airing out and a fresh coat of paint, of course. Boo is right: it'll be beautiful. It will just take some time and a lot of work. One bit at a time.
I got the keys to the house yesterday. As I was walking away from the lawyer's office, with the legal-size envelope and its contents - including my new keys - I started to panic a little. It felt exactly the same as the day I visited the house I'm currently renting. That day, nearly two years ago, I walked down the street, having left what seemed like a hole of a house, realising that it was the only thing in the neighbourhood that was affordable, big enough, and available. I nearly had a panic attack. But I got through it by giving myself a pep talk. It's going to be fine. Everything is going to work out. It's good.
Those were the exact same words I whispered to myself yesterday as I walked out with my new keys and the biggest debt load I've ever carried. By the time I got to the bus stop, I was adequately calmed and ready to pick up my girls to go see the house.
It was their first time inside. I had warned them that there are lots of renovations and cleaning up to do, so it doesn't look perfect now. But it will be better before we move in.
We got to the house, I pulled out the key, and turned it in the lock. This is it. No going back. And we went in.
The first thing that hits you is the smell. The entire first floor of the house smells rancid; like an old, sick woman. And it's dark. And the light switches, if they work at all, are fritzy and fiddly (that's knob and tube for ya). And the colours are horrid: a 1950s turquoise in the living room, pink in the dining room, and a sickly yellow in the kitchen. The sticky tiles in the kitchen are coming up, and the cupboards are cheap and ugly.
Upstairs is not much better. The bathroom is at least 60 years old; the floor is mungy, the toilet scary-looking, the sink likely original to the house (80-90 years). The Bean's room, with the sink, has cupboards that need to come out, and that neat sink? The plumbing is wonky. Boo's room looks okay, but the pine floor has been painted - but only along the edges where it's not covered by the cheap roll-out cushion floor. Same for the floor in my room. And both our rooms have skinny closets that are too narrow to hang a hanger.
The windows throughout are original and falling apart. Some don't open. Some open with effort and are hard to close. Some have unattractive and broken roller blinds on them.
And that's all I could see yesterday: the problems, the work, the cost. I felt so defeated in that moment. And then Boo, in her cheery manner said, "it's going to be so beautiful!"
She had heard all the stories I told about what work we were going to have done. She had seen the tile I picked out for the bathroom, and listened to the design ideas I had for it. She knew the floors were going to be restored to gleaming hardwood throughout. She knew that I can work magic with a paintbrush and the right colour and that the kitchen was going to rock, despite its long pedigree. She knew that her room and her sister's were going to be fabulous, just like they are in our current, rented home. She just believed and overwrote the plans onto the current mess, and she saw.
I'm still in a bit of a lingering panic. I don't have all my workers lined up yet - that's my project for this week. I'm not 100 percent certain that it'll all be ready when we move in. Maybe it won't be. But it's livable. Completely and totally livable. With a bit of an airing out and a fresh coat of paint, of course. Boo is right: it'll be beautiful. It will just take some time and a lot of work. One bit at a time.
Sunday, 6 October 2013
anniversary
Today would have been our 12th wedding anniversary. For the record, it was a beautiful day, full of love and joy and hope. I wouldn't trade it for anything.
It is good to be able to hold the past close, to own it and not colour it with too much of the present. No regrets.
It is good to be able to hold the past close, to own it and not colour it with too much of the present. No regrets.
Monday, 30 September 2013
the s&*% just got real
There's nothing like forking out hundreds of thousands of dollars - most of which isn't your own money - to make things feel really real. Especially when you're the only one on the hook for it.
I remember buying our first house over five years ago. It was stressful and hard and there were moments of wondering if this was the right thing. But there were two of us in it. There was someone to bounce ideas off, to be there as a reality check: is this crazy? Is this the right decision? Is this too much money? Is this the right place for us? And we'd talk it over and calm each other down and laugh and dream, together.
Now when I wake up in the middle of the night, worrying that maybe this is the single biggest financial mistake ever, there is no one to talk me off the ledge. No one to say: this is a great deal! And we're going to rock it! One evening last week, I discovered a weird banking snafu; I realised that I wouldn't be able to close on the date I'd negotiated. I started to panic. What if the seller refuses to change the date? What if this all falls through? What if this house isn't going to be mine after all? How am I going to be able to afford anything in this (freaking) neighbourhood?
I felt so alone. It was too late in the evening to call anyone. So I lay awake, wondering what I would do. Of course, the wrinkle got ironed out the next day between my lawyer, real estate agent, and mortgage broker. But not before I cried with relief after talking to my agent.
It's all become very real for the kids, too. Boo has been especially emotional lately. She doesn't like talking about her feelings all that much. On the odd occasion when I'm feeling down and The Bean asks me why I'm sad, Boo will pipe up: "Don't ask her that! It will make her feel more sad!" I try to tell her that talking about how we're feeling helps, but she refuses to listen.
Last week, after Dad dropped them off, Boo was very sad. She said she missed Dad, and she started to cry. After a bit of cajoling, I got out of her that she wants the four of us to be living together. I found it a little odd that this would be coming up now, after nearly two years of being in separate houses. My mom pointed out to me that it makes sense: the kids have probably been holding out some sort of hope, even if unconsciously. My buying a house makes things a lot more formal - and final. Momma and Dad aren't going to be living together anymore.
In the excitement and nervousness about the new house, I do feel the sadness from time to time, too. This really is it. The house title has been transferred over to Dad. I have my portion of the principal on what divorce lawyers call "the marital home." And I'm about to use those funds to buy a totally separate house that is just mine, for just the girls and me. This is big. And very, very real.
I remember buying our first house over five years ago. It was stressful and hard and there were moments of wondering if this was the right thing. But there were two of us in it. There was someone to bounce ideas off, to be there as a reality check: is this crazy? Is this the right decision? Is this too much money? Is this the right place for us? And we'd talk it over and calm each other down and laugh and dream, together.
Now when I wake up in the middle of the night, worrying that maybe this is the single biggest financial mistake ever, there is no one to talk me off the ledge. No one to say: this is a great deal! And we're going to rock it! One evening last week, I discovered a weird banking snafu; I realised that I wouldn't be able to close on the date I'd negotiated. I started to panic. What if the seller refuses to change the date? What if this all falls through? What if this house isn't going to be mine after all? How am I going to be able to afford anything in this (freaking) neighbourhood?
I felt so alone. It was too late in the evening to call anyone. So I lay awake, wondering what I would do. Of course, the wrinkle got ironed out the next day between my lawyer, real estate agent, and mortgage broker. But not before I cried with relief after talking to my agent.
It's all become very real for the kids, too. Boo has been especially emotional lately. She doesn't like talking about her feelings all that much. On the odd occasion when I'm feeling down and The Bean asks me why I'm sad, Boo will pipe up: "Don't ask her that! It will make her feel more sad!" I try to tell her that talking about how we're feeling helps, but she refuses to listen.
Last week, after Dad dropped them off, Boo was very sad. She said she missed Dad, and she started to cry. After a bit of cajoling, I got out of her that she wants the four of us to be living together. I found it a little odd that this would be coming up now, after nearly two years of being in separate houses. My mom pointed out to me that it makes sense: the kids have probably been holding out some sort of hope, even if unconsciously. My buying a house makes things a lot more formal - and final. Momma and Dad aren't going to be living together anymore.
In the excitement and nervousness about the new house, I do feel the sadness from time to time, too. This really is it. The house title has been transferred over to Dad. I have my portion of the principal on what divorce lawyers call "the marital home." And I'm about to use those funds to buy a totally separate house that is just mine, for just the girls and me. This is big. And very, very real.
Saturday, 21 September 2013
EEEEeeeeee!
That, my friends, is the sound of a pre-teen squeal of sheer excitement. But it is not coming out of The Bean; it's coming out of me.
I've bought a house. It's been nearly three weeks of visiting the house, visiting it again, putting down an offer, negotiating the price, settling on a price, getting quotes, lining up the financing, signing myriad papers, lost sleep (lots of lost sleep), house inspection, second guessing, more lost sleep, and one final decision: I'll take it.
The house, not unlike my life right now, is a project. It is 80 to 90 years old, and the last time it was on the market was in the 1950s! So the little old lady who had lived there had been there for a while. And it shows. The kitchen is classic 1950s - ugly. The bathroom is ancient and needs gutting. The windows are original wood casing. The furnace is actually older than me. But because it hasn't been touched in 60+ years, there are advantages. All of the wood trim in the main floor and most of the second floor is unpainted and gorgeous. The dining room still has the unpainted wood wainscotting. There is hardwood throughout, some of it covered by other flooring. And, as the house inspector pointed out, when work hasn't been done, at least it hasn't been done wrong or poorly. You get to do it and make sure it's done right.
The new place is in the same neighbourhood as Dad, and just a block from my current house, which I'm renting. Given the neighbourhood, I'm getting the house for a song. Oh, and I get it in nine days (yes, NINE!). I'll be giving my notice in the house I'm in now. I'll have just under two months to pull up floors in three rooms, update some of the electrical, gut and redo the bathroom, get a new furnace, replace the windows, paint, and get the floor refinished.
I've got quotes on all the work. I'll be doing some of it myself and already have at least a couple of volunteers to help with some of the demolition.
The house itself is a little quirky. Like there's a sink in one of the bedrooms. As soon as I told the kids about it, The Bean called dibs. And the closets are weird: there is none in the room with the sink, and the other two bedroom closets aren't deep enough to put a hanger in. Thank goodness we're already experienced with small or non-existent closets and have armoires.
It is time to start building new dreams. And they start in this new little house. The three of us are very excited. And happy.
I've bought a house. It's been nearly three weeks of visiting the house, visiting it again, putting down an offer, negotiating the price, settling on a price, getting quotes, lining up the financing, signing myriad papers, lost sleep (lots of lost sleep), house inspection, second guessing, more lost sleep, and one final decision: I'll take it.
The house, not unlike my life right now, is a project. It is 80 to 90 years old, and the last time it was on the market was in the 1950s! So the little old lady who had lived there had been there for a while. And it shows. The kitchen is classic 1950s - ugly. The bathroom is ancient and needs gutting. The windows are original wood casing. The furnace is actually older than me. But because it hasn't been touched in 60+ years, there are advantages. All of the wood trim in the main floor and most of the second floor is unpainted and gorgeous. The dining room still has the unpainted wood wainscotting. There is hardwood throughout, some of it covered by other flooring. And, as the house inspector pointed out, when work hasn't been done, at least it hasn't been done wrong or poorly. You get to do it and make sure it's done right.
The new place is in the same neighbourhood as Dad, and just a block from my current house, which I'm renting. Given the neighbourhood, I'm getting the house for a song. Oh, and I get it in nine days (yes, NINE!). I'll be giving my notice in the house I'm in now. I'll have just under two months to pull up floors in three rooms, update some of the electrical, gut and redo the bathroom, get a new furnace, replace the windows, paint, and get the floor refinished.
I've got quotes on all the work. I'll be doing some of it myself and already have at least a couple of volunteers to help with some of the demolition.
The house itself is a little quirky. Like there's a sink in one of the bedrooms. As soon as I told the kids about it, The Bean called dibs. And the closets are weird: there is none in the room with the sink, and the other two bedroom closets aren't deep enough to put a hanger in. Thank goodness we're already experienced with small or non-existent closets and have armoires.
It is time to start building new dreams. And they start in this new little house. The three of us are very excited. And happy.
Tuesday, 17 September 2013
can't fight the tears
There is much going on, at home, at work, in my personal life. It's only Tuesday, and it feels like it should be Friday; that's how eventful it's been.
Today, I signed the divorce papers. These are the documents that will be filed with the court. In a few months, I will receive the final papers, declaring the divorce complete. I wasn't sure how it was going to go. I didn't feel anything getting ready to go into the mediator's office this morning. I was careful not to apply my mascara, and even to pack some of my makeup for afterwards (crying can make an awful mess of blush, too). I am nothing if not at once pragmatic and vain.
But there was nothing. I went it, read through the documents, signed and initialed in the spots marked off with tiny Post-It notes. Within ten minutes, I was back on the road, heading toward work. I didn't cry. I listened to the radio, which is sometimes a mistake in such circumstances, and I did get teary when I heard the GooGoo Dolls' "Iris" - specifically the line, "You can't fight the tears that ain't comin'." Yes, I do see the irony. But once the song was done, I was fine again.
The moments I see coming like this - those ones I can brace myself for. And I think, for better or for worse, I am good at that. It's the unexpected moments that throw me facedown into an emotional pit. Like looking for and finding the marriage certificate. Or any Blue Rodeo song that comes up on the radio. Or coming across one of the kids' baby pictures. They all remind me of what we had. Of the things that, while I don't actively try to forget, I still keep to the side. The memories are both beautiful and painful. I think that's called melancholy. That's the phase I'm moving into.
Today, I signed the divorce papers. These are the documents that will be filed with the court. In a few months, I will receive the final papers, declaring the divorce complete. I wasn't sure how it was going to go. I didn't feel anything getting ready to go into the mediator's office this morning. I was careful not to apply my mascara, and even to pack some of my makeup for afterwards (crying can make an awful mess of blush, too). I am nothing if not at once pragmatic and vain.
But there was nothing. I went it, read through the documents, signed and initialed in the spots marked off with tiny Post-It notes. Within ten minutes, I was back on the road, heading toward work. I didn't cry. I listened to the radio, which is sometimes a mistake in such circumstances, and I did get teary when I heard the GooGoo Dolls' "Iris" - specifically the line, "You can't fight the tears that ain't comin'." Yes, I do see the irony. But once the song was done, I was fine again.
The moments I see coming like this - those ones I can brace myself for. And I think, for better or for worse, I am good at that. It's the unexpected moments that throw me facedown into an emotional pit. Like looking for and finding the marriage certificate. Or any Blue Rodeo song that comes up on the radio. Or coming across one of the kids' baby pictures. They all remind me of what we had. Of the things that, while I don't actively try to forget, I still keep to the side. The memories are both beautiful and painful. I think that's called melancholy. That's the phase I'm moving into.
Friday, 6 September 2013
dreaming my dreams
I've come to realise that while I am a realist and a pragmatist in many ways, at my core I am a dreamer. I make plans in my head - constantly. Sometimes, it's mundane plans like what route I'll take home, or what chores I'll do and in what order. Those are the plans that organise my life. But then there are the bigger, wide-open, blue-sky plans. Like travelling. Or a new course. Or what kind of life I'm going to build. Those are the plans that create my life.
There are many things that are hard about separation and divorce. One of the ones I hadn't really counted on was mourning the loss of dreams. We had planned so many things. We had started travelling with the kids. We'd even done some adventure-type travelling, including a five-day hike in the Andes with the girls. We were planning more of it. And then there were plans for our house, various renovations we wanted to do to make it just the way we wanted it. And the plans to simply grow and be together. All of these plans were dreams, really, of building something amazing. We did a lot of dreaming together.
Our wedding song was the Cranberries' "Dreaming my Dreams"
I'll be dreaming my dreams with you
And there's no other place
That I'd lay down my face
And be dreaming my dreams with you.
Just thinking of that song makes me weep. I can't even bring myself to listen to it. Because it all just evaporated. Not the past, or the good memories, but the future. Poof! Like that, my future was gone, in a sense.
I am mourning those old dreams, still. And it's hard to take the old dreams and just remove him from the pictures and imagine them just as my own now. It's like I have to start fresh. Do something totally different, otherwise it just feels like refurbished dreams. And it still hurts.
I am stepping out of the in-between phase and into my new life. Inventing it all takes time, I suppose. But I'm starting to dream new dreams, little by little. One by one.
There are many things that are hard about separation and divorce. One of the ones I hadn't really counted on was mourning the loss of dreams. We had planned so many things. We had started travelling with the kids. We'd even done some adventure-type travelling, including a five-day hike in the Andes with the girls. We were planning more of it. And then there were plans for our house, various renovations we wanted to do to make it just the way we wanted it. And the plans to simply grow and be together. All of these plans were dreams, really, of building something amazing. We did a lot of dreaming together.
Our wedding song was the Cranberries' "Dreaming my Dreams"
I'll be dreaming my dreams with you
And there's no other place
That I'd lay down my face
And be dreaming my dreams with you.
Just thinking of that song makes me weep. I can't even bring myself to listen to it. Because it all just evaporated. Not the past, or the good memories, but the future. Poof! Like that, my future was gone, in a sense.
I am mourning those old dreams, still. And it's hard to take the old dreams and just remove him from the pictures and imagine them just as my own now. It's like I have to start fresh. Do something totally different, otherwise it just feels like refurbished dreams. And it still hurts.
I am stepping out of the in-between phase and into my new life. Inventing it all takes time, I suppose. But I'm starting to dream new dreams, little by little. One by one.
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