I’m rolling out a loaf of bread and I mistake plaster dust for flour on the surface of the pizza peel.
I think we’ve taken on … uh … too much.
There are a few demands on our time, money and sanity right now. Between the young children, the livestock, the garden and the home renovation, we exist in a constant state of hot mess. I barely can hear myself over the power tools, the squealing, and the consistent cell phone beep of low balance text alerts from my bank.
Not to mention that every single inch of this property contains a project screaming to be finished. SO LOUD! I can barely walk out the door. Every day the pigs uncover a pile of rubble from the previous owners on Possum Street. The front half of an old tractor. A car bumper and a set of tires. An busted disc harrow. An old truck bed full of clay drainage tiles? TWO truck beds full of clay drainage tiles?!? I’m starting to think this is the place where productivity comes to die.
I can imagine the future owners of our farm uncovering a pile of bones, wrenches in hand, attached to something that needs to be fixed or maintained.
Dammit we died trying!!!!
The ridiculous from-scratch cheese-making, butter-churning life was all fine and good until we threw “home renovation” back into the equation. We had slowed our construction pace to a comfortable standstill after the kids were born, but now we’re full road gear into the final phase of kitchen/bathroom gut/rebuild before we can call this place livable. And by “we,” I mean Seth, because our days of working fast together as a team with a single purpose are over. I can no longer help him repair this enraging home. Gone are the halcyon days we would get up early, work without the interruption of lunch breaks, direct creative swear words at this house and go to bed filthy.
Now we are PARENTS with kids who like to play with rusted nails and horsehair plaster and eat three meals per day PLUS SNACKS. They cannot even sleep in a comfortable pile of debris–they demand clean pillows. Ugh. So I can only listen helplessly and serve as distracted support staff, attempting to clear the rubble from the exits and keep the kids and animals alive while he toils.
Seth drives into Columbus, works all day, arrives home and works all night. Hand him a beer next time you see him.
The weird thing is, though, I work best under the influence of terror and the certainty that the work will never get done. But there is a fine line between “feet to the fire” and putting us all in a closed garage with the car running..
I’m joking of course.
The cars cannot even fit in the garage at this point.
AND the garage door track is broken, requiring one person to pull the door down as it closes so that it does not pop back up. Yes, even the sweet release of death would require a day of repairs. I just don’t have time for that these days.
You know what else is broken? The stove burners. And the clothes dryer. And the lawn mower. All of our appliances have the seven-year itch.
That’s right. Seven years. We’ve been existing here seven years. SEVEN YEARS! As Seth says, “It just can’t be not done anymore.” Inspiring words from a war-torn man.
It’s time to finish. Or move to a condo. One of these things is going to happen in 2013.
No related posts.