Construction

The remodel has begun. We are in the midst of two by fours and old horse hair plaster, hammers and saws, and hope and horror. Our little two bedroom home is being converted into a little three bedroom home and while I am optimistic about how the change will improve the quality of our lives, I am not exactly thrilled to have to do it. We are sealed in plastic and still covered in dust.

The construction zone used to be our bedroom. It has two windows, a large walk-in closet, and enough floorspace to accommodate two cribs, two dressers, and a queen-size bed. There is a door at either end of the room which made us realize that, at some point during our home's 80-year history, our big room used to be two small rooms. With that knowledge, our plan was hatched.

And this is what that large room where my Turtles entered the world looks like now:

My home's bones are laid bare before my eyes. The nakedness makes me want to turn away out of respect to its history. I am uncomfortable, in a deeply emotional way, with destroying a part of something that has given me so much. Yet, with a bonus baby in our family, we can't live as it was before. The house and I will need to compromise. I'll try not to look too deeply at its cracked facade if it can promise to accommodate our family.

Then, as if awaking from a dream, I am jolted by the sound of our contractor's voice. He is yelling to his older, orthodox Jewish assistant, "Hey, Ma! I'm gonna need the Sawzall."