When I close my eyes at night my head is filled with paint chips, fabric samples, glorious colors and swirly doors. I dream of Candice Olsen, and of her coming to our new home where we sing, dance and make beautifully decorated rooms together. It’s a good dream.
And then I wake in the home we are still living in, to the home where Michael and I got married and started our lives together. To the home where Kenza began kindergarten and learned to ride her bike, and the home that has had every corner and piece of furniture christened by Rowdy. The older home we have all loved more than any other house. But now, I’m starting to believe we loved this house too much and that it has employed an angry poltergeist to take vengeance on our plumbing. I don’t blame our house, I wouldn’t want us to move either; we gave it a makeover and made it not look like the Mary Kay explosion it once was. And I’m sure this current episode of “My House Hates Me, Part 27” is the cause of my continuous constipation.
That’s not to say that I’m not going to love our new home just as much, or be equally as constipated. But. Oh. My. God. I am so going to love the new home benefit of not having to repair something every other day. We’ve taken our time with this new home. We spent nearly seven months working with the architect on the floor plan before we even began construction. And, for the most part, construction hasn’t been so bad. Michael and I have only nearly killed each other six or seven times in the 18 months of this entire process. It is our dream home, the home we will die in because, even with as great at it has been, I AM NEVER MOVING AGAIN.