Being a Grown Up: Bedroom Saga

Tranquil.

Not tranquil.

Let me just start off by saying I love my children.  You know what comes next right?  I'm about to tell you how sick and tired I am of their junk being all up in my grill.  In this particular case, the baby girl and the toddler girl have been sleeping, pooping, and storing all their stuff in OUR bedroom.  You know, the place where the magic supposedly happens.   How we got here is the ceiling in Sweet Pea's bedroom started falling in--literally--due to a roof leak.  B.daddy fixed the leak to the best of his ability last summer, but the damage was done and it looked super bad.  So round abouts November with Baby due in January, I said oh so nonchalantly, "Hey babe? I'd really like for you to redo Sweet Pea's room before Baby is born."  This would be the room both Sweet Pea and Baby would call home. So in the most disorganized fashion possible, we moved everything out of her room, into ours and various other places in the house, and B.daddy started ripping things apart.

Me looking awesome as usual:

no make up, no bra,  

breastmilk, spit up, and paint

all over me.  Awesome.

If you know anything about our house, you know it has very special needs.  And if you know anything about B.daddy, you know he doesn't do anything halfway.  Therefore no job is quick, none of the stories are short, but it always get done down to the very last detail.  Let's see if I can long-story-short this one.

• B.daddy removed every single surface: ceiling, walls, floor.
• B.daddy completely reframed room in an attempt to square it--impossible--and make it safe--possible.
• B.daddy insulated the ceiling, removed chimney, created new closet space.
• B.daddy managed to get a new roof put on during complicating winter weather.

Wait.  Hold up.  What?  A new roof?  Ahhh, yes my darling readers.  The big surprise of this particular home improvement project was the immediately necessary purchase and installation of a new roof.  Merry Christmas to us.  Cost an arm and a leg AND delayed the room project forever.

• Then....B.daddy finished insulating the ceiling, installed gorgeous shiplap ceiling.
• All new electrical and drywall, trim hung; windows reglazed, painted, balanced, and hung.
• B.daddy relaid antique wood floor like a jigsaw puzzle & painted radiator.
• Painting, painting, and more painting.
• Touch up the painting.

FINALLY--and I left a bunch of stuff out--it was move in ready yesterday.  The day before yesterday I oh so nonchalantly said, "Hey babe, I'd really like to make that our room instead and keep the babies in here."

Hear me out: it's smaller than ours, but now it's GORGEOUS!!  Like I said, I love my babies.  But if we moved into the new room I would actually have a beautiful, peaceful, clean room all to myself! (I would let B.daddy share it with me of course, since he did all the work.)

You see, this purganizing project of mine is not only about getting my tangible sh!t together.  It's a mental health thing as well.  One of the most important aspects of my own self care is a lovely, peaceful home.  And yet, my bedroom is historically the last room that gets any attention.  It catches all the mess when frantically cleaning up for guests, the laundry piles high, and the thought of redecorating is a complete joke.  But this very practical opportunity arose to 1) downsize our own junk and 2) have a beautiful, brand new room that will be completely and totally clean and organized from Day One.

(It also makes more sense for the babies who require two beds, a rocking chair, a changing table, and a dresser to have the larger room.  So I'm totally looking out for them.)

So even though I planned to kick off my purganizing project with something small like our mail sorter, I ended up jumping feet first into the biggest, messiest room in the house.  See below.

Our sleeping arrangements these past 7 months.  Cozy.

The mess was indescribable.  And, um, my cleaning helper
had been here two days prior to this photo.

My "creative" under bed storage solution.

Now, for the REAL before pics:
The baby room w/ falling ceiling and nasty everything.
The doorway furthest to the left is a walk-through closet that leads directly into our old room.

The bricks in the center make up the chimney B.daddy tore down.  It and the fireplace it once serviced were totally unsalvageable. :(

Creeeeeeeepy.

With the chimney removed, we realized we could create a recessed storage area which is incredibly valuable in a modest house built in 1832!

Debris.

Taking it all down to the barest point.

And now he can begin rebuilding the room basically from scratch.

One of our cool finds: a vent that used to allow the heat from downstairs to come up to warm this room.

The roof is FINALLY done!  So B.daddy finished insulating and installed this wonderful shiplap ceiling. 

Here he has leveled the floor as much as possible and laid a new subfloor.

Ceiling is done, walls are done, time to do some painting.

So close, yet still so far away.  At this point B.daddy was just about ready to lose his ever-lovin' mind!  He was SO tired of this project hanging over his head.

This is a very big deal.  None of our four upstairs bedrooms have had a light switch.  The light fixtures operate on a pull string.  So this is our first bedroom to have a real, grown up light switch.  We even got a dimmer switch. :)

The amazing floor B.daddy rebuilt w/ wood from this room and various other sources.

Isn't this the most beautiful room you have EVER seen?  It pretty much embodies all our hopes and dreams for our antique colonial cottage.  If that's not a thing I'm totally making it up because it perfectly describes our home. :)

(The floor in this pic still has one coat to go.)

Our bed is moved in and we are gradually getting our stuff moved in.  I've imposed a strict no clutter policy, so we don't put ANYTHING in our room until it has a place to be stored.  I've downsized my things like a mad woman which feels wonderful.  I'll post more pics when the pretty things start falling into place.

Being A Grown-Up: The Everlasting Saga, Part 1

I hate what kids these days call "adulting." H-A-T-E hate it.  All I want to do in life is as follows:

• Sit on the couch and hold babies.
• Sit on the couch and talk to the big kids.
• Sit on the couch and binge watch ALL the shows.
• Sit on the couch and eat chocolate cake.
• Sit on the couch with friends who let me wear pj's when they come over.

And last but absolutely the very best one:

• Lay in bed for as long as possible with my favorite person, drinking coffee and dreaming out loud.

As you might have noticed, there is no room in my wheelhouse for "measurable productivity." (I just threw up in my mouth a little bit.)  I am a very busy woman, what with all that sitting on the couch.  I cannot be bothered with things such as organizing, cleaning, or executing any of the grand plans I have written down in my many little notebooks that are chock-full of grand plans and ideas.  Unfortunately for us creative types, sh*t doesn't do itself.  It requires someone to actually do it.

Which is precisely why we call it sh*t.

Speaking of, I started making a list of the areas in my home that need to be purged and organized.  Upon completing this list and feeling a profound sense of accomplishment for my wisdom and forethought, I realized I had written down every single room or storage space located within these four asbestos-shingled walls.  For various reasons, most of which are listed above, I've never managed to get our whole house in order since we moved in back in 2011.  Under threat of impending catastrophe or disease spreading mold, I have organized the occasional room or drawer. But never all of them at the same time, and some of them never at all. Really, y'all.  I just can't be bothered.

The one that started this mess.

But this is no way to live.  Consistent with the complications of humanity I really, really want to live in a beautiful, clean, organized space.  The fact that I do not often makes me at best unhappy and at worst very cranky with my cohabitants.  They do not like me when I'm cranky.  I don't like me when I'm cranky.  And so I find myself concluding for the thousandth time: I've got to get my sh*t together.

So here's my idea: I'll trick myself into doing it.  Convincing oneself that one is doing one thing when one is actually doing another thing takes a lot of trickery and sneakiness.  Thankfully, I have always been very sneaky.  (Just ask my sisters.  I took all their things.)  Through meticulous self-deception I will attempt to make the process of reorganizing Every Square Inch of my home....wait for it....Fun!  The method most likely to work is--no, not "whistle while you work" you goody two shoes--by utilizing satirical, self-depricating humor.  Obviously it is my moral responsibility to make these morsels of humor and sagacious wisdom available to the public.  My audience needs me.

How exactly will I execute this plan?  I will chronicle my journey right here at Messy Manger by providing before and after pictures of my endeavors accompanied by quip-y witty banter.
Because nobody has ever done anything like this in our modern era of social media.
(Uh, missed opportunity folks.)

Alright, y'all.  Here we go.

I hereby contract myself to you, My Faithful Readers, (most of whom know me well enough to ask me why I'm not doing my blog thing because you've seen my house and you know it's not because I'm so busy cleaning and organizing) to perform the following tasks:

• On a weekly basis, except family vacations and religious or government holidays--any religion, any government--I will completely purge and organize one room or storage area in my home.
• When I have completed the purganizing* process, I will provide my readers with visual and written evidence of my work.

So there you have it.
Simple.
Two steps.
Once a week.
I can do this.

I hope.

The real kicker is when I inevitably will miss a week and although you guys will be so gracious and forgiving, my husband who thinks he's soooooo responsible will tease me for watching Netflix all day instead of actually doing something.  Then I'll have to pick, like, the BIGGEST problem area the next week and totally knock it out of the park because I hate it when he thinks he's better than me.**

See.  I told you I was sneaky.

*I just made that word up.  Purganize.  Brilliance here, take note.
**Except back rubs and making coffee.  He can be better at those.

The Aching. The Vulnerability. Too Much.

It's been months.

We have weathered yet another incapacitating pregnancy.  We came out the other end of a terribly hopeful labor with a fifth warm, fuzzy soul. (We never got to see #4, so really our Baby O is #6.)

She is here.

And I am here.

But so is my husband and Li'l Bit, Gizmo, Ladybug, and The Rascal.  There are 7 of us.  SEVEN!  And B.daddy and I have these peculiarly lovable "unrelated" souls all around us just begging to be loved.  There are so many human beings happening right now!  How does God even stand it?

How do we do this thing called love?

I have so much raw love inside the most deep, dark, protected part of my heart.  But how do I get that love through my walls?  These walls have kept me standing my entire life.  They may be the only things keeping me standing.  Or they may be the only things keeping me separated from the people who are so eagerly trying to love me....and more importantly, so desperately wanting me to love them.

And my walls may rebuild themselves even after I have broken them down with vim and vigor and vomit.  Really? For the rest of my life? (Please, no.)

Maybe I'm sitting here with my FIFTH BABY FOR CRYING OUT LOUD wondering why I haven't figured this thing out.

Maybe the feeling I had of being totally and completely overwhelmed after having one child is the exact same feeling I have now.  Because maybe having a baby is a big deal.  Can I just tell you what a big deal this girl is?

She is warm, oh so warm.
She is perfect.
She smells like breastmilk and the cleanest, purest fuzz.
She is sweet.
She is vulnerable.

Her one goal in life is to be loved and cared for.

Her first smile wasn't just a grin.  Her mouth opened so wide with elation my heart left my body (yet again) and implanted itself inside her chest (yet again.)
Her siblings kiss her and coo over her constantly.
Her mere existence constantly breaks my heart into a trillion pieces.

This is exactly how I felt after Li'l Bit was born--my first baby.  I expected to swoon and feel comforted and whole.  I did NOT expect my heart to break like it had never broken before.  I did not expect to feel like the most important part of me was beating inside a tiny, helpless human being.  But I had never fallen in love so hard and so fast.  Of course I didn't know.  And who would expect that to happen a second, third.....sixth time in one lifetime?

Who would expect so much love?  And who would expect it to ache so much?  Those walls start shooting right back up, because this can't be right.

It is so much safer to separate oneself.  Within myself I can master, control, protect, contain.   At the very least, no one can hurt me if I feel nothing for anyone.  Can I just be me?  Separate and far away from anyone else?

No.
You can't.
These are your people.

I love these people.  I can't handle it.  I can't squelch it.  I cannot contain these children.  I cannot master my man.  I cannot protect any of them despite my ultra-sensitive, whatever-phobe-or-phile-radar was ostensibly nurtured into me. They just keep living and feeling and acting and asking and speaking.

Inside my walls all was quiet.
All was just so.
Safe.
All was dark.
All was not right--it was bleakly silent.

My man has so many good words.
My babies are so noisy.
My soul aches for even more of this noise that breaks my heart because it reveals the secret that we all are aching to be loved.
I am not alone in this wanting to be loved.

~~~

Thanks to the people who have loved me, I am finding my many words.  The silence is no longer bleak.  My words are finding a safe place to land and, by some, be heard.