move

I don’t want to move my fridge.  I have put off having the last of the original floors in our 70’s four-level redone until now.  Well, four days from now.  I’ve had at least a month to pack up the kitchen and laundry room, but I reasoned, what’s the use, I’ll use those rooms right up til the very last minute.  I suspect that sorting and moving three and a half years of accumulated “things I may need” could turn ugly.

I’ve had experience with this.  Last summer we were able to replace the white, oil based carpet that flooded the public areas of our home (also called the flippin’ thing that made me very angry every day). We have a black lab.  And three boys.  However, after we found evidence of orange shag underneath, I brieflly reconciled with the white stuff.  We carried all of the furniture pieces that we had previously moved from our first home into a Pod, out of a Pod and into this home, back into the garage.  Then we went camping, and awaited “the change”.  When we came home to the gorgeous, dark stained floors, I laid down on them in bliss.  That was my way of welcoming my imagined new era of housework; lighter, prettier, easy. We kept to minimal furniture for months, long enough that my boys pretened to sit on the future furniture.

Nothing fit anymore. The problem became clear: I realized the scale of our old furniture was completely out of proportion.  This home has 9 ft. ceilings (ala 1971), as opposed to our cathedral ceilings before (1998).  What to do when confronted with a challenge?  I spring to action, google, and then do what I do best, shop.  I spent hours researching furniture pieces online; shapes, colors, dimensions.  Slowly, I oversaw the return of furniture, piece by carefully vetted piece.  Big blue comfy denim sectional couch, a keeper for the “media” room.  We used to call that a TV room back in the day.  A vintage white school locker about my height, to hold DVD’s (don’t laugh-yes, we still have them.) next to the couch.  Eventually I found a comfy club chair in my favorite shade of gray, with ottomon of course.  It was briefly called “mommy’s chair”.  Now I don’t sit in it very often; I am more than hesitant due to the many stains that dot the canvas.  I don’t ask what they came from anymore.  It’s better that I don’t know.

The upper living room in our house is called the piano room, cleverly named for the petite grand that anchors a portion of the room.  If those strings could talk, what stories it would tell.  It seems that since having my wee ones, the only time I’ve purposely taken to playing is when I have emotions that cannot be expressed any other way than through music.  Or when it’s a holiday.

I was even more invested in that room; it’s the first room you see when you walk up our entry steps. Yep, first impressions.  I had this thing about my surroundings speaking about who we are as a family.  I was so done with all of the lovingly given, but tired hand me downs.  It was a way to illustrate who I am now: See what I like?  Look at how I’m different than I was before!

I had decided on a small scale modern (gray) sectional, for lots of seating options, and style.  My husband insisted on helping to make this chioice.  And he had a point.  He wanted to make sure it was comfy.  I however wanted firm-ish. Somehow one evening we managed to go on a date night~to Macy’s downtown.  We spent an hour sitting in and rejecting couch after loveseat after sectional.

We did decide, together.  It’s nice to know he had my back.  It’s my favorite place to spend time cozying up to my coffee and laptop, watching the seasons change through our huge picture window.  The rest of the pieces were an eclectic mix of the best pieces that I had saved from my junking days and modern finds.  Easy industrial I’ll call the final look.  I then vowed that in January of 2014 we would redo our kitchen floors.

In January, while sitting by my blue light on said couch, desperate for Vitamin D, I thought my August self crazy.  It’s bone chilling cold here in January.  So I postponed installation til spring break.  Which came and went, after all I had promised my family no garage sale during spring break ever again.  So, no work.  I settled on mid-August.  Worked last year. The time of summer when we are all tired of each other, only have two maybe three day trips left on our summer list, and when I need any excuse to get away and eat out. In either order.

I cannot even describe that linoleum to you.  I must show you.  (Viewers discretion:  this picture may hurt your eyes.  Or your design sense. Objects may be greener and uglier in real life.)

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Here is my youngest, Finn(y), he was just 2 when we moved here.  (I also changed over those @#%#@ drawer pulls as soon as I was able to afford it.  They did untold damage to I don’t know how many sweaters.)  Ah, and there in the background is the object of my procrastination.  The fridge that I had to pick out at ding and dent last minute because our old wide by side was too tall for the space.  The fridge that has fallen apart faster than any other thing in this place.  The fridge I just completely emptied a few weeks ago to cart all our food to my parents to save it in their fridge when the power went out.  It’s lighter, bonus.

Sure, there isn’t much in the way of furniture to move out of the kitchen/dining area, though I bet it’s going to feel like it this afternoon.  I am just a bit of a dreamer. Maybe 80/20 on my realist/dreamer chart.  That could be off by a good 50%.  I take on projects that I know I can do, in my head, that is.  And then, most everything, is much harder, more complicated and profoundly longer than I had anticipated.  And thus, I struggle.  Where some may be able to see this as a series of steps that MEAN NOTHING, I will infuse every minute, interaction and detour with meaning.  And take a few breaks, to cool off, cry, eat, pinterest….that may or may not add an hour or two onto my process.

So here’s where the dream and the reality collide brilliantly.  I have fiercly wanted these floors done before we moved in, and every day since then.  As our best laid plans do, those plans came to a crashing halt when the neighbor’s mammoth pine tree uprooted in a windstorm and sunk it’s teeth into our boy’s bathroom ceiling.  That it happened in the middle of the night, was feet from our boys bunk-beds in their room and did not wake them, and caused minor damage, well those were miracles.  The rest was yuck.  Now I find myself at the precipice of my long awaited hope becoming real to find that I’m a little nervous.

About what?  I think often times, I think I don’t deserve ‘good’ things.  That maybe if I get something good, more will be required of me, I won’t be able to hang out in the background, or worse, maybe this is it, and I’ll end up obscure the rest of my life.  Normal scares me way more than risky.

And so, I have pulled myself up, warily eyed my appliances (we are moving three of them out to save a few hundys), saying  ‘You won’t beat me’, in my head, lest anyone else hear me.  They don’t hear me when I am purposely talking to them (three boys, husband, boy dog), but have a fantastic skill of owl-like hearing when I am whispering to myself.

Listening to my playlist last weekend, I ran across a song, Better Not To Know 

. About life and growing; how the best lessons and times happen in ways we would never have asked for. I’ve been thinking this week about a line that stuck with me:  “The risk of living is the pain”.

Nothing stays the same, seasons change, and no matter how much we try to control what happens, and how and when and where, the truth is, we wouldn’t want it to go our way.  In relationships, work, love, we are not the experts.  We may think that remodeling our lives to hide the past, covering our pain in brave choices, or making our color scheme more palatable for others will fix what’s broken, or maybe protect our heart from rejection and hurt.

If there is one thing I’ve learned, procrastinating life hurts me.  More than any jump into an unknown.  Be brave, you know you, He knows you.  Together you can move.  I only know because He’s held my hand, too.  So, this is me.  See what I like!  Look how I’m different than I was before!  I’ll risk living, and pray that you will too.

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Author: messyjoyfull

Saved by grace-blessed beyond measure-love my crazy family, blogging, photography, music, football (#goHawks) ...donuts and coffee...I love stories and the people in them, and Messyjoyfull is about my story, and what I think I know...

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