Day One of kitchen remodel. What a lucky, lucky girl I am and what a beautiful new kitchen this will be. Anyway, that’s the attitude I wish I had.
My grandparents built this home in 1969, when my parents got married and took over the farm and farmhouse. My grandfather did quite a bit of the building and I liked seeing what I know to be his touches. Pieces of a yardstick used as shims, pieces of plaster patched together behind the soffit because nothing must be wasted, five different types of screws because they came from the collection he kept in a jar.
Clearly Grandpa didn’t think the wall should ever or would ever come down. Dad and E had quite a time getting the wall out. Not as easy as it looks on HGTV. It was kind of frightening the way chunks of plaster and giant wooden splinters went flying clear across the room and yet the wall didn’t budge. Someone could have put an eye out. So I didn’t get to swing the sledge after all. My job was to carry out the larger pieces of plaster and wood and to constantly sweep up the smaller ones. Dust, dust, dust. Everywhere, fine, fine dust. It’s still in the air now.
I had anxiety attack after anxiety attack during the first hour or two. I just kept thinking it was all for my Sweet Pea. A beautiful, new kitchen with a dishwasher to sanitize those baby bottles and with plenty of space for sippy cups and baby food jars. Especially with Dad and E working so hard and having trouble. E kept making snarky comments and I know he wasn’t wild about the idea of him and Dad doing the work from the start. And I think he’s frustrated that I’m not excited or wanting this anymore. At one point when they had most of the wall down, he jokingly (I think) asked me if I wanted them to quit. I wish it had been practical for me to say what I really felt. “Yes, just quit, I don’t care anymore.” But I just tried to laugh.
Clara kept me up most of the night last night with a restless little whine. I don’t think she’s in pain but she may be having some discomfort or just couldn’t find a comfortable position. The fentanyl pain patch only lasts 3-5 days. The vet prescribed a stronger oral pain medication so I hope she gets some relief and I get some sleep.
Kitchen looks like a war zone, boxes storing kitchen stuff everywhere, microwave and toaster oven in the living room, Christmas tree half up and half down, a gimpy dog and don’t forget soul sucking grief. I don’t want to think about any of it anymore. I think I’m going to take a very hot shower, wash all this dust out of my hair and go to bed.