Birthing Beautiful Ideas

Tim and I bought our first home in August.

We moved into it the weekend before Thanksgiving.

(If you haven’t read my posts on the subject, the house was kind of a rank, nasty place when we bought it.  Hence the three month lapse between purchasing the home and moving into it.)

I’ve promised pictures for weeks, and I’ve decided to deliver on those promises tonight.  And while I have not yet uploaded photographs of what the house looks like now that we’ve moved in our belongings (because I’ve been moving in our belongings, you know), I do believe that the following photographs should give some idea of just how far we’ve come.

(For a look at some of the “before” photos, just take a look here or here.  And don’t say I didn’t tell you it was rank and nasty.)

The Bathroom

Thanks to a very generous loan, Tim and I were able to remodel our bathrooms. 

No more irreparably stained and cracked tubs and tiles.  No more pink fixtures.

And no more thoughts of the previous owners’ woefully inadequate cleaning capabilities whenever we looked upon our toilets, sinks, and tubs.  (Seriously, how in the HELL do you get orange, oily goo on the inside of a toilet.  HOW?!  Wait a sec, please don’t answer that question.  I don’t even think that I want to know.)

The Boys’ Rooms

Considering the unimaginably horrid stains that once graced the carpets and walls in these rooms, I think that the new coats of paint have left them rather bright and cheery.  (And they look even better with the new carpet!  Photos forthcoming, yes, yes, I know.)

The Downstairs

If you can get past the giant piles of crap on the floor, you will see what I consider to be a lovely progression of colors from one room to the next.  I am especially proud of these colors since a) I am artistically challenged and b) I was nonetheless able to coordinate three colors for the space rather than to paint all three rooms the same color.

Again, the room looks much better with carpet (rather than the dingy padding shown in this photograph.)

And, of course, it looks even better without the loads of crap on the floor.

But at least it’s not literal crap anymore.

Some might say that the giant U-Haul truck in the driveway should have been a tell-tale sign.

Others might say that the (seemingly) zillions of cardboard boxes marked “kitchen” and “master bed linens” and “more mother-effing toys” should have clued me in.

And still others might say that the note on my calendar reading “TODAY YOU ARE MOVING OUT OF YOUR PARENTS’ HOUSE AFTER LIVING THERE FORE SEVEN MONTHS” should have let me know that, yes, last Saturday was moving day.

Moving in.  To our first house.  After living with my parents for SEVEN MONTHS.

But I didn’t really feel the majesty of moving day–didn’t really feel it deep in my bones–until I had cried, told Tim to fuck off at least three times, and looked longingly at a bottle of tequila all before 9 a.m.

Ah, moving day.  It truly brings out the best in people.

(That tequila, along with a bucket o’ margarita mix, was the first item I brought into the new house.  I have priorities, you know.  And loads of class.)

Thankfully, the logistical and physical stress of moving into a new home didn’t ruin our marriage.  (In all honesty, I don’t even remember exactly what had made me cry or what had “made me” hurl a rather sizable number of obscenities Tim’s way.)

As I was getting ready to leave for the new house, I pulled Tim aside and said (very begrudgingly, I might add), “Just in case one of us dies on the way there, I guess you should know that I love you.”

And as we (begrudgingly) held one another in the driveway, we began giggling, and then we just kept holding one another.

Somewhere hidden in that anecdote is one of the many secrets to how we keep our relationship going strong.

(Passive aggressive ways of saying “I love you”???)

And I couldn’t be happier, more joyful, or more thankful to continue our relationship and to live with the family we’ve created in our new home.

Our home.

(With pictures forthcoming, I might add!)

We move into our new house this Saturday.  We have everything we could ever want in it…and more.

In fact, thanks to my eagle-eyed brother in law, we now have the perfect secret hiding place for our dope.

(Mom, stop giving me that look.  There’s no pot in my house.  Anymore.  *winka winka*)

But how, pray tell, did we stumble upon such a magnificent…er, bizarre…find?

As we (Tim, my brother-in-law Jim, my dad, and I) were painting the basement last Saturday, Jim called over to me and asked me to check out something he had found on the wall.

Meeting him on the other side of the basement, I discovered what had drawn his attention: what appeared to be an un-peculiar outlet cover.

Then Jim removed the outlet cover. 

He didn’t need to use any tools–it just popped right off the wall.

Behind the outlet cover was a little plastic contraption with a hole in the center.  Jim (brave person that he is) stuck his finger in the hole, pulled ever so gently, and removed a small compartment which was definitely, legitimately, assuredly a receptacle for hiding one’s stash ‘o drugs.

It was, in a word, awesome.

And ingenious.  And hilarious.  And something my sixteen-year-old self would have totally tried to install in my bedroom.  Only to have my mother find it and ground me for the rest of my high school years.

After we all marveled at the little box and its contents, my father–who I can guarantee you has never ingested or inhaled an illegal substance in is life–let out a gasp of sincere shock and exclaimed something along the lines of, “Oh my GOD, are those real marijuana cigarettes?!  Do you think that we should call the police?!  Should we get their drug-sniffing dogs over here?!”

My sweet father.  The quarterback-valedictorian  who graduated in ’68 and was just too busy being the brainy jock to notice the fact that nearly everyone around him was puffing the magic dragon.

In any case, because I wanted to act a wee bit older than sixteen–for instance, I didn’t think it was a spectacular idea to let out a “Duuuuuude, you could totally hide a dimebag in there!” sort of response in front of my dad–I giggled a bit and reassured my sweetly oblivious and well-meaning father that, no, the drug-sniffing dogs did not need to come and check out the one inch by four inch box that was maybe, possibly, probably filled with a couple of joints a few months ago.

I mean, I’m guessing those drug-sniffing dogs would even laugh at us if we called them over to check out the teeny-tiny outlet cover of sin.

A few more ideas were tossed around for the secret hiding place: like Tim’s, which involved hiding our Social Security cards in the drug stashery, since it’s, you know, so much safer than our fireproof safe; or mine, which involved hiding a super-secret emergency pacifier in there for those moments where our soothed-only-by-a-pacifier teething toddler found himself without a “boo” in sight.

But I think we’ve decided to keep the secret stash receptacle just for the hell of it.  Just for the sheer uncanny-ness of it.

And just because there’s a part of my sixteen-year-old self that totally, unabashedly loves having it in my house.

Once upon a time, there was a little boy who asked his mommy to draw him a picture of a cow.

His mommy, who loved her little boy dearly, was more than happy to pick up a crayon and a fresh sheet of construction paper and draw for him her very best bovine creation.

Upon receiving his mother’s heartfelt gift, the little boy held the drawing at arm’s length, examined it, and stated, “Well, it sorta looks like a cow.” 

He was only two.

And, as you may have guessed, he was (and is) my son, M.

And I was (and am) the artistically-challenged mother in the story.

It should come as little-to-no-surprise, then, that after testing out my priming and painting skills in our new kitchen, I realized that it would be a very good idea if Tim and I could hire someone to paint the house.

You know, just so that no one would say ever anything like, “Well, it sorta looks like you didn’t fingerpaint the place!” 

(You may be wondering how anyone could make priming and painting look that bad, but HELLO, did you not read the above anecdote?!  A two-year-old can even spot my poor skills from a mile away.  Or at least an arm’s length away.)

So, with some hefty generosity coming our way, Tim and were able to hire James.  Or “Super-James,” as I call him.

(Super) James is a local independent contractor who is not only painting our house but has also installed new bathtubs and has agreed to install new lighting in the kitchen.  He’s spectacular and amazing and extremely kind and efficient and totally reasonable, so if you’re looking for a spectacular, amazing, etc. contractor in the Central Ohio region, please send me an email and I can send you James’s contact information.

In any case, while the house is far from completely finished, I thought that I would share a few before-and-after teaser shots.  With the love and hard work not only of Tim and me but also of my parents, my uncle, my brother-in-law, my sister, and yes, the spectacular, amazing, etc. James, our house has come a long way since we bought it–i.e. back on closing day when we found a dog turd in the dining room, the unmistakable black streaks of ghosting on the walls, unidentifiable orange grease-goo on the kitchen ceilings, blood stains underneath the carpet, and ORANGE-FLAVORED KY JELLY LEFT IN THE DRAWER OF THE ONE PIECE OF FURNITURE REMAINING IN THE HOUSE oh-my-lord-there’s-nothing-so-gross-as-finding-a-disgusting-and-filthy-stranger’s-KY-jelly.

(Now you may be wondering, “Why in the HELL did you purchase this house?!”  But just wait and see.  Oh just wait and see.)

Dining Room - BEFORE

Please note: nasty carpet (which is GONE and shall be replaced in just one week) and the black-stained walls, which are cleaned and partially painted and now look like this:

Dining Room - AFTER

Sweet mother of cleanliness!  And you can take that quite literally–my mom and I both scrubbed the ceilings and walls for hours.

Kitchen - BEFORE

This is what the kitchen looked like when the previous owners lived there.  (I won’t even show you the close-up photos I took of the aforementioned unidentifiable orange goo on the ceiling and walls.)

This is what the kitchen looks like with a deep cleaning, some work on the cabinets, and a fresh coat of paint from, you guessed it, Super-James.

Kitchen - AFTER

So the moral of the story?

Next time one of my kids asks me to draw a picture, I’ll say, “Are you sure you don’t want me to hire someone like, say, Super-James to do that?  I mean, I can clean up your crap (literally) like it’s nobody’s business, and, oh yeah, I can install a toilet, little dudes, but I’m not so sure you want me drawing.  Or painting.  Or doing anything that requires an iota of artistic skill.”

My parents–my wonderfully kind and generous parents–have allowed Tim and the kids and I to live in their house for the past five months so as to ease our transition from New York to Ohio.  It’s been marvelous, what with my mom’s cooking and the extra help with the kids and the fact that my own grandparents live under the same roof.  So a toast to them and their wonderfulness and kindness and generosity and marvelous-ness!

But…

… it’s high time that my family mosey on out of here sometime soon.

And here’s why.

The Top 10 Reasons Why I’m Ready to Move into My New Home that Tim and I Have Officially Owned for over One Month:

1. I’m ready to start taking on doula clients, but I can’t do that until I know for sure that I will be living in the same town as my clients.  (We currently live one hour away from our new home.)

2. Tim has a 1 hour and 45 minute commute to and from work every day.  The gas is bad for the environment, and the added time away from the kids makes our co-parenting arrangements somewhat tenuous.  (Okay, and I’ll admit–I may be a bit spoiled compared to some other folks out there, but my tender grey matter just can’t take thirteen hour days with the kids.  JUST.  CAN’T.  TAKE.  IT.)

3. We have this neighbor at the new house who gives us really nasty looks each time she comes home from work.  She has made no effort to be nice or to introduce herself and only interacts with us by shooting us catty little comments on her way from the car to the door.  Comments like, “The lawn looks so much nicer now that it’s mowed, doesn’t it?” *insert sarcastic tone* or, “It’ll be nice when that house hasn’t been sitting empty for so long, won’t it?” *insert cup o’ bitchiness.*   And I just want to move in and give her a reason to quit it with the catty comments.  In fact, I’ve wanted to say to her, “Oh, great!  Are you offering to help us clean the vomit off of the wall upstairs?!  Or perhaps to pull up the carpet in the basement?!  AWESOME!  Here, let me give you a rag and a bucket of bleach solution!”  But I don’t.  Because she’s seven months pregnant.  And I fear that the cleaning-solution fumes may exacerbate the a-hole-itis that the baby’s mother may be bequeathing to him/her.

4. Although  a bitchy neighbor isn’t really a reason to move in, both of our already-super-cool next-door neighbors are reasons enough to move in.  Case in point: they have mowed our lawn and removed a dead tree from the backyard.  And they have responsible college-age children who have already offered to babysit the kids on their breaks from school.  To them I say: YOU’RE HIRED!

5. We will live within two miles of a Jeni’s Ice Cream store.  So if you ever see me in real life, please don’t ask me “when I’m due.”  Just smile and nod knowingly at my Thai Chili ice cream baby bump and keep your words to yourself.

6. The novelty of having sex in the bedroom where I grew up has worn off.  Now it’s just the room where boxes of our crap are piled up and have nowhere to go until we move into that new house that we have owned for over a month.  And that ain’t exactly sexy.

7. I can’t get my poor grandmother to remember that the Cartoon Network is not an appropriate television channel for young children.  She means no harm, but she can’t seem to rid herself of the ideas that 1. kids need television 24-7 and 2. if it’s a cartoon, then it must be for kids.  And so I get a completely whacked-out three-year-old whose brain is spazzing after having watched just five minutes of cartoons with Great-Grandma.  (But I completely forgive her, because she is nearly 80, because she feeds my kids cantaloupe and homemade chicken and noodles about a thousand times a week, and because my kids have the gift of being able to know and love their great-grandmother.)

8. I find it very difficult to suppress my angsty high school self now that I’m living in the same house where I last left my angsty high school self.  It’s as if I’ll have what should be an adult disagreement with my parents and then I’m suddenly drowning in a pool of hormonal tears and blubbering, “But you guys just don’t UNDERSTAND me!!!!”  Oh god, will someone get that girl her copies of On the Road and Quadrophenia already?!

9. But my books and CDs and vinyl are all packed away in a storage locker, so I can’t revisit my hormonal-teenage-tantrum remedies until we’ve moved into the new house.

10. We are only a paint job and a tub-replacement and a carpet installation away from moving into the house.  We’re this close.  Okay, maybe it’s more like   t     h     i     s   close.  But it’s close enough that I’m downright obsessed with planning our move-in strategy.  Not because my parents aren’t marvelous.  Not because I haven’t loved sharing this time with them.

But because my family is ready for a space of our own.

And for weekly visits to Jeni’s Ice Cream.

Tim and I spent several hours at the house yesterday, and “all” I had to show for it was a nearly-entirely-primed kitchen.

Lesson learned?

Priming takes a long time, especially when one is attempting to cover up lavender trim, “ghosted” walls, and grease-stained ceilings.

But at least the streaky primed walls look better than they did before.  (And that’s a sad and sorry testament to just how bad they looked when we closed on the house.)

In any case, after all that priming–and after an ice cream treat at our favorite local shop–something funny happened on the way back home.

I don’t know if it was the effect of an hours-long subjection to paint fumes or of the utterly splendid cup of cherry lambic sorbet that I ate at Jeni’s Ice Cream, but I had what one might call an “epiphany” about my parenting skills.

And that epiphany left me thinking that I am doing well at this whole mothering thing.

While this in and of itself would not constitute an epiphany for most, it is a big one for me.  And I will be the first to admit that I am hopelessly neurotic about the looming question of “whether or not I am a good mom.”  I am (perhaps to the point of narcissism) constantly concerned about what others think of my parenting skills.  It’s as if I think that any time the kids or I do something that can’t be construed as “parental/child perfection” the words “BAD MOM” are suddenly scrawled across my forehead.

I yell when instead I should take a deep breath and step back a minute?  I’m a BAD MOM!

The kids sometimes whine and scream and throw giant fits?  They must have a BAD MOM!

I don’t practice all of the same methods or techniques that all those other seemingly serene and good-choice-making parents make?  BAD FREAKIN’ MOM!

It’s irrational and silly, I know.  It’s actually beyond irrational and silly.

But as Tim and I were making the journey back from our new house to the house where we currently reside (i.e. Chez My Parents), we started talking about a few of the especially cute things that the kids had done in recent weeks, and I began to recognize just how irrational and silly my bad-mom worries were.

Because I realized that I had been holding an unattainably broad conception of “good parenting.”

For the past three-and-almost-four years, I have been thinking that if I do not excel in every aspect of my parenting, then I am somehow deserving of that dreaded “bad mom” moniker.  That if my kid whines more than the next kid, then I am doing a bad job of meeting his needs.  That if I don’t organize “enough” play dates or read “enough” books to my kids or make sure that they get “enough” vegetables each day, then I am shirking my parental duties.  That if I do not instill the perfect forms and levels of justice and peace and tolerance and respect and love in my children, then I am an absolute failure as a mother.

That if I am not a perfect mother, then I am not a good mother.

And my conversation with Tim last night made me realize that one parent’s version of “good parenting” need not be the standard-bearer of parental success for me.  That it is more than acceptable for me to narrow my focus on a handful of hopes and dreams that I have for my children in order to determine whether or not I’m a “good mom.”

That a lack of perfection need not imply a lack of good parenting.

So what actually gave me that epiphany?

Tim and I were talking about how when M (our 3-year-old) was crying earlier in the day, A (our 16-month-old) stopped dead in his tracks, walked over to M, and wrapped his chubby arms around his brother’s neck.

And then about how when M was not even two, he had comforted a crying friend (a two-year-old girl who had recently moved from Serbia to the U.S. and who was not only unfamiliar with the English language but also partially deaf) by performing a finger puppet show for her.  (He even had his elephant puppet proclaim, “It’s alright, Tara, your mommy will be home soon!”)

And then about the many times that our children have offered up consoling hugs and “it’s okays” and “I love yous” and other kind words to others who have been hurt or sad.  And all without any prodding on our part.  And all (at least presumably) springing forth from the love and kindness and compassion that Tim and I have helped to instill in them.

And reflecting upon all of these events finally told me that one of the primary parenting hopes and goals that I have tried to realize in raising my children–to raise kind and compassionate and loving people–is in the process of being actualized.

And that made me think that I may be an alright mom after all.

These cabinets shout, “CLEAN ME!  SAND ME!  PAINT ME!”

Especially since they looked like this after I removed the hardware:

We found this unidentifiable, possibly toxic goo all over the cabinet faces before we cleaned them.

Holy wall, Batman!  This looks like it’s a job for HANDYWOMAN!  (Well, her and her superiorly-talented and handy Uncle Larry.)

Mmm, spackle looks like raspberry gelato…

Where’d the hole go?!  Where’d it go?!

THE HANDYWOMAN (and her superiorly-talented and handy Uncle Larry) SENT IT STRAIGHT TO HOLE-HELL, THAT’S WHERE IT WENT!

Have I ever mentioned that I helped to INSTALL THIS MIRACULOUS, BEAUTIFUL TOILET?!

My mom discovered the “fruit of the spirit” under the refrigerator.

I guess the spirit likes it some rotten fruit.

He approves of all the hard work we’ve put into the house.

16-month-olds have very high standards, you know.

When last week began, my “handiest” skills were pretty much limited to hammering nails into walls (sometimes crookedly) and pulling nails out of the walls.  Maybe I’d drill a hole here, tighten a screw there, but I had never really undertaken any serious repair projects.  In fact, I was so tool-and-repair-unsavvy that I accidentally referred to a “saw” as a”sword” just last Monday.

(Is it an indication of irony or sheer stupidity that I nonetheless decided to take on this house rehabbing project?  I dunno.)

But when last week ended, I could proudly–very proudly, and very repeatedly–say that I knew how to repair drywall and how to install a toilet.

Measuring and cutting drywall.  Hammering support boards into the wall.  Patching.  Caulking.  Handsaws, screws, nails, and exacto knives.  Wax rings.  Nasty-ass washers and nuts and bolts from the old toilet.  Hooking up the water line to the new toilet.  Attaching the toilet seat and lid.

REPAIRING DRYWALL AND INSTALLING A TOILET, PEOPLE!!!

Have I already mentioned that I am proud of these newly-acquired skills?

And that I like to repeat my “mastery” of them to anyone within listening range?

And so when some guy from the local newspaper (we’ll call him “Dick”)  arrived on my front porch on the night of my repair-conquests and tried to sell me a newspaper subscription by dishing up a very hefty serving of paternalism and sexism, my feminist sensibilities–which were now attached to a person who could REPAIR DRYWALL AND INSTALL A TOILET–became a wee bit enraged.

Dick approached me as my mother and I were conversing with my new next-door neighbor, Cynthia.  Upon discovering that it was I (and not my mother or Cynthia) who was the new home-owner, he identified himself as a employee of the paper and then immediately asked if I was married.

Already, this question annoyed me.  Did the fact that I was married make me more likely to be a literate person?  Someone more interested in keeping up on world affairs?  Or was this question an attempt to direct the salesman to the MAN OF THE HOUSE?

And this question was quickly answered for me because no sooner had I responded that I was, in fact, married, that Dick asked what my husband did for a living.

Not what I did for a living.  Not even whether or not I worked.  Or read.  But what THE MAN OF THE HOUSE did to bring home the bacon. 

I cringed and offered up a wry, “He’s an attorney.”

Dick seemed almost giddy at this response and went on to gush about what my husband is interested in reading and what my husband needs with his morning coffee and how my husband needs me to lock in these subscription rates right now.

And then I–I, who was a FEMINIST WHO COULD NOW REPAIR DRYWALL AND INSTALL A TOILET–burst forth with a wave of disgust and frustration and asked (this) Dick, “Who are you to tell me what my husband is and isn’t interested in?!  Or what he needs?!  How do you know that I don’t want to read the paper?!  What about what I’m interested in?!”

(In my perfect outburst that I re-created in my mind, I also went on to shout at Dick about how if he’s going to go and get on with his bad sexist self why doesn’t he at least try and assume that the little wifey wants those Sunday coupons–which I do by the way–and how I do work and I do appreciate the newspaper and how even if I didn’t have additional work besides raising the kids I might still want to read the paper because stay-at-home moms care about the news too, you jackass and how I now might want to read the classified ads for power tools because I CAN REPAIR DRYWALL AND INSTALL TOILETS, DID YOU KNOW THAT?!)

Dick looked stunned for a moment and muttered something about how he used to work for AIG, but then you know how that went, and now he’s working for the Dispatch selling papers. 

Was that supposed to excuse his sexist assumptions???

Even if his sob-story did leave me feeling an iota of sadness for him–but HEY, at least he has a job in a state with a 10%+ unemployment rate!!!–that iota of sadness was soon swept away when Dick asked to see my left ring finger in an apparent attempt to size up the MAN OF THE HOUSE’S salary and/or my wifely sense of materialism.

What could that possibly tell you about my need for a newspaper subscription, Dick?!

I can REPAIR DRYWALL AND INSTALL A TOILET, Dick.

What’s more, I have a brain in addition to having boobs and a vagina.

A little bit more respect.  Please.

If you’ve seen my first “Monday house update,” you may have noticed that my newly-purchased home needs some sprucing up.

Well, it needs a bit more than some sprucing up.

I suppose that I could be satisfied with the black streaks (or “ghosting“) on the walls.  And with the irreparably stained carpet.  And with the pink cabinets.  And pink countertops.  And pink bathroom fixtures.  (Okay, for financial reasons, I’ll have to be satisfied with some of that pink for a long, long time.  I’ll just have to let it remind me of salmon.  Or cotton candy.  Or Pepto Bismol.)

But something–oh, I don’t know, a desire not to be reminded of the previous owners’ filth and general uncleanliness–tells me that I wouldn’t be happy with blood-stained carpet (yep, totally serious) and grimy walls for long.  I mean, would you want to live in a house that reminded you of The Amityville Horror?

And this is why I have a vision.  A vision for my family’s home.  One that involves both short-term (i.e. relatively inexpensive and/or necessary) and long-term (i.e. more expensive and/or cosmetic) goals. 

Allow me to walk you through some of the components of this vision.

(Let me say first that I am very proud of this vision.  I’m not what you would consider a person with a great sense of style or visual artistry, so for me to cobble together paint colors and trim colors and cabinet colors and kitchen hardware and not make it look like my middle school art projects that Mrs. Browne all but said looked like giant mounds of dog poo is quite a feat.  So if you hate my vision, you can just kiss it.  You and Mrs. Browne both.)

The kitchen

For the kitchen walls, we’ve chosen Koi Pond.  (All of the paint–and yes, the primer–is from Sherwin Williams, who, like all other paint manufacturers, must employ a whole army of folks who just sit and come up with whimsically ridiculous paint color names all day long.)

For those pink cabinets–which are not only wood but also paint-able–we’ve chosen to re-cloak them in Dover White.

And (here’s where I start getting excited and shouting, “DO YOU SEE THAT, MRS. BROWNE?!”) we’d like to replace the kitchen hardware with some sort of pewter (or “pewter-ish”) cabinet knobs and drawer pulls.

Okay, maybe not those knobs.  They’re about $15 a pop.

And then some day–some day far, far in the distance–we’ll replace the countertops (yeah, yeah, I’ll admit it, I salivate over granite countertops) and the floors (goodbye beige linoleum, hello hardwood).

But new wall colors and cabinet colors and hardware will make enough of a world of difference as it is!

The family room

The walls will be painted in August Moon.

The family room sits right next to the kitchen, and I do believe that August Moon and Koi Pond shall be the best of friends.

I’ve also considered replacing the pink tiles surrounding the fireplace (oh yeah, those are pink too) with some sort of glassy amber tiles.  Some day.  Some day…

The dining room

The dining room, along with the foyer and all of the hallways in the house, shall be painted our offical “house neutral” color: Navajo White.

And since the dining room is flanked by the family room and the playroom (or what others will consider to be the formal living room, and what may some day be an office), the Navajo White will be flanked by August Moon and our chosen color for the…

Playroom

…that is, Latte.

(I’ve noticed that the colors as they appear on my computer screen are not exact replicas of the “real life” colors.  To get a better idea of how these colors look in more natural lighting–of which we have plenty, hooray!–you can check out the Color Visualizer on Sherwin Williams’ website.)

And finally, some day–some day far, far in the future–I’d like to replace all of the trim (the baseboards, the door trim, and maybe even some crown molding) with cherry-stained wood.

I know, Mrs. Browne, isn’t that AWESOME?!

Tim and I have recently purchased our first home.  In fact, we closed on it just last Wednesday.

The adventure itself–what with the appraisals and the inspection and the financing and the pleading and cajoling to get the mid-divorce sellers to pay for a repair or two before closing–was harrowing enough.  And I’m glad that it’s over.

But another adventure has just begun.  Because the house is so filthy (which we already knew) and so in need of some minor (and some major) repairs that we have quickly found ourselves smack dab in the middle of a house rehab. 

And this adventure, much unlike the actual purchase of the home, has been exciting.  Exhilarating even.  And tremendously satisfying.  (At least the first weekend of it.  Ha.)

My plan is to provide weekly updates of this exciting and satisfying adventure here so as to take my friends and family and other readers on this journey with us. 

Obviously, I could create an entirely separate blog for this endeavor, but that just seems like far too much for me to juggle at the moment.  I am, after all, writing my disseration and raising two kids and certifying to become a doula and a lactation educator and writing a blog and rehabilitating a home.  I can hardly keep track of two separate email accounts let alone two blogs.

So I suppose that Birthing Beautiful Ideas will soon become a blog devoted to parents who are interested in childbirth and VBAC, are married to marathon trainers, and who are crazy enough to take on the task of rehabilitating a home.

A truly vast audience if there ever was one.

In any case, even if this adventure doesn’t necessarily involve giving birth to a beautiful idea, we–Tim, myself, and my family, who are are already essential and amazing parts of this rehab team–are giving birth to a truly beautiful home.

I hope.

But for now, it’s in rehab.  Like, “heroin addict who’s shivering, vomiting, and shaking in bed” rehab.

Just see for yourself.

It’s really a magnificent space.  But look at that carpet.  The filth.  The grime.  And this picture doesn’t even do it justice.  I wouldn’t be surprised if this carpet hadn’t seen a vacuum cleaner in years.  Or if the owners liked to run through a pile of dog poo and then smear it onto their floors.  Or if they didn’t give a crap (pun intended) about letting their dogs pee and poo on the floors.

See that black liquid?  That’s a bleach and water solution.  And it turned that color after I washed just two vents in it.

Sweet, spectacular cleanliness.  This vent, and this wall, and these baseboards were black–black I tell you–before my mom and I got our hands on them.

How many times one ever heard someone say, “Hey, that house looks so much better with no carpet and just the padding on the floors!”?  (Many thanks to my father, who heroically removed two floors worth of carpet this past weekend.  And who, I should  mention, found a dried puddle of blood under the carpet in one of the upstairs bedrooms.)

One final thought after this first week of rehab-ing?

Bleach.  

Bleach.  

Bleach is my friend.