To My Hugo

You turned two on January 23. How did the days pass so quickly between then and now?

How did the years pass so quickly? A moment ago you were a baby, now--you are a boy.

Happy Belated Birthday, my golden child.

When I found out that I was pregnant with you I could not fathom how I could love you as much as I loved your sister. I didn't say anything, afraid to admit my fear.

From the moment I first felt you stirring in my womb I knew you were a different kind of child. Gentler, more deliberate than your fierce and tumultuous older sister. When you were born I waited for that wrenching newborn scream--but it didn't come. You smiled and went to sleep. You have been smiling ever since: delighting in the world you find.
                                          

Your sister is like me, fortunately or unfortunately. You are nothing like me. You are like your father. Fortunately. Only fortunately. When my grandmother saw you for the first time, she said (in her arch, Georgian way), "Well. We know where You came from." I love you for your father, for the happy spirit you inherited from him. I love you for your self.

I am so happy that you came. I am overwhelmed with pride at how you have grown, and troubled with grief that you are growing up.


*** The fantastic photos at the beginning of this post were taken by Chelsea Donoho, who is an incredibly talented artist based in Lawrence, Kansas. Check out her site HERE. 

Farmhouse Update: February

It has been a while since I wrote an update on the farmhouse. Actually, it's been a while since I blogged at all. The radio silence can be explained in part by the frantic busy-ness of the holiday season and the ensuing exhaustion and winter-induced lassitude. Then I broke the computer.

No, really. I broke it. I put it on top of my car and drove away. My mother-in-law found it a few blocks away on the side of the road. 

Anyway, I got a new computer. Then that one stopped working, through no fault of my own, I swear. Though I am beginning to suspect that I harbor an anti-technology poltergeist. I cannot TELL you how many devices have expired on my watch (like the computer in graduate school that literally CAUGHT FIRE while I was writing an essay??). 

Anyway. Those are a few of my best excuses.

But the real reason I haven't written about the farmhouse lately is: ...that I haven't had the heart. Remember the last update? The one about asbestos floors, and warped doors, and I can't even remember what else? Well, it got worse. Many of you counseled me to fire our contractors. And we did, my friends. We did.

After we fired our contractors our first action was to hire a guy to finish the painting we had been unable to finish. We found a local Dude at loose ends looking for odd jobs. He came up and painted the ceilings and the room we hadn't finished. So far so good. Painting=not rocket science. Dude then offered his services for exterior painting. We agreed. And this is where Devin and I took a wrong turn and found ourselves "within a forest dark [...] the very thought [of which] renews fear, so bitter it is, death is little more."

Well, not quite that bad. But bad enough.

After the exterior paint was finished (also to our satisfaction), the Dude continued to offer his services for tasks that we had yet to finish. Our Ikea cabinets were still in boxes. Would we like him to assemble them? ("Well, why not?") The finish carpenter wasn't returning our calls, would we like him (the Dude) to finish the trim? ("Um, can you do that? Well, okay..."). The electrician was hard to pin down, so would we like him (the Dude) to install the switches and outlets. ("Well...") Can you see a pattern here? We were exhausted, frustrated, extremely strapped for time and cash. We were vulnerable to the temptation. In fact, we were so naive as to be hopeful. Maybe the Dude could finish up these last few things for an absurdly small amount of money. Maybe?

But as the days turned into weeks we began to suspect that Something was Up. The Dude became increasingly hard to get hold of. He was never at work before noon. Sometimes he said that he was working at the house and then, when Devin arrived, he would be gone, and there was no evidence of further work completed. The project stalled. We finally decided to go up one Saturday and assist, hoping to encourage efficiency.

We arrived on that morning to find a complete and utter disaster. How can I explain it? Every wall was scratched, smudged, and banged. Every room needed to be substantially repainted. The newly finished floors were filthy. Someone had been "working" on the electrical outlets, obviously with no knowledge or skill. There were bare wires everywhere, tangled and cut. The outlets that were "completed" were crooked and the walls around them damaged. One outlet was so poorly installed (glued?) that the sheetrock for a foot on either side was soaking wet and disintegrating. You could put your finger right through the wall. The trim had been installed using tacks nailed in every inch or so, with gaps at the joints and between the quarter-round and the floor. The cabinets had been partially constructed, but incorrectly. Some of the drawers were missing. Every bag of screws/nails/parts had been dumped out on the floor in no order, with no way to tell what pieces went with what piece of furniture. The same had been done with all of our light fixtures. Every floor, every surface, was covered with trash, nails, scraps of wire, old food, tools, and mouse droppings. 

It was truly terrible. I sat with the children huddled on the couch, afraid that they would hurt themselves or contribute to the general chaos. For a good half and hour neither Devin could say anything. And then we said things. Many things. 

Needless to say, we sent the Dude packing and spent the rest of the day trying to clean up and take stock of the damage.

All of this is, of course, our own stinking fault. "Sarah and Devin Learn a Lesson" in good American Girl Cautionary Tale form. Never again will we hire a worker without references and credentials. But this has been a costly lesson for us to learn, both emotionally and financially.

The next week Devin hired a very referenced and credentialed electrician to come out and take stock. He brought along a similarly skilled plumber and finish carpenter. They were possibly more shocked by the state of the house than we were. But, unlike us, they have the skills to diagnose and treat, which is what they have been doing in the past few weeks.

All of the electrical had to be redone. Every socket, every outlet. If we had hired this electrician in the first place it would have cost around $500 total. With the damage done it cost us more than twice this amount. The trim also had to be completely ripped up and reinstalled.

So after many, many steps backward, we are now finally making our way forward. In fact, despite EVERYTHING, we are now very close to being really and truly finished. This past week the cabinets were hung and I went up to watch the counters being installed. We found a really gorgeous remnant of white marble which we had honed by a responsible workshop here in Kansas City. Thank goodness for professionals. Look at this marble!

Ignore the unfinished painting.

While the counter-guys worked like pros, I spent the day repainting the walls and cleaning the house. By the end of the day I felt much better about the whole situation, glad to have been able to do something that actually HELPED, happy to have finished a project. The day was gorgeous and I was able to walk through the fields, enjoying the silence and the melting snow.

It is going to be okay, people. It's going to be great. The end is in sight, there is light at the end of the tunnel. But the tunnel has been pretty dark.

   

Deep Clean: Hattie's Room

My "Fall Cleaning," which I so ambitiously began...in the fall...became, as days (and weeks and months) passed, the "Advent" deep clean, and now has become the "New Years" deep clean. If I don't post quickly it will soon become Spring Cleaning true and proper. In my defense, despite the lack of blog documentation, I did energetically pursue my deep cleaning throughout the Fall. And then Advent struck and Christmas and there was no time to blog. I love the Christmas season and its joyous traditions, religious wonder, family celebrations, friendly meetings, food. But I must admit that I am glad its all over.

Deep cleaning is a funny thing. In that it doesn't stick/stay. Already I am finding that the kitchen which received the treatment only a month ago, is almost in need of another scouring. Alas. And today we removed the Christmas tree, which scattered a million tiny pieces of itself in every room and (somehow) under every rug to ensure we will remember it fondly till...next Christmas.

Today's Deep Clean feature is Hattie's Room. The photos are already obsolete, having little to do with the post-Christmas reality of one thousand tiny plastic princesses and their furniture and accessories. Not to mention Hattie's expanded winter wardrobe courtesy of the Grandmothers. But the feeling and vision of the room remain: simple, whimsical, bright. Hattie's room with it's books, its comfortable chair, its southern exposure, remains one of my favorite rooms in the house. It was here that I nursed my first baby for whole days at a time while reading thousands of pages of Charles Dickens novels I somehow missed in nineteen years of formal education. It was here I paced back and forth with said baby in the middle of the night, staring out at the bright winter sky. It's a good place, always evolving and changing as my daughter grows.

Excuse the poor quality of these photos. I made a mistake somewhere in the editing process. And now both of my children are awake. So. Too late for extra edits.

Sources:
Wallpaper: Sanderson's "Finches"
Bed: antique. This was my mother's bed and mine as well. It shows its age but I love it.
Storage furniture: vintage
Glider: Pottery Barn
3 Bird Pictures: These pictures are by an Edinburgh artist. We bought three little images just before I found out I was pregnant with Hattie.

On Minimalism and Socks

The last time I was pregnant I went through a violent nesting phase. This is not uncommon. But whereas most expectant mothers tend to hoard (food, diapers, blankets, etc), my “nesting” went in the opposite direction. I wanted to Get. Rid. Of. Everything.

This purging instinct was not always popular in my house. My husband and my toddler were prone to revolt, so that often I was forced to resort to subterfuge.

I started reading minimalist blogs when I should have been writing and making secret trips to Good Will when I was supposedly running to the grocery store. 

Much of this new minimalism was a reaction to a real and overwhelming glut of stuff in our home. 

You see, for the first five years of our marriage we didn’t have that much stuff. There were the books, of course. Okay, lots of books. But books aren’t “stuff” (right?). We moved to and from Scotland with two suitcases. (I shipped the books.) And when we bought our house I was overwhelmed with the vast and empty rooms, the cavernous basement. How, I wondered, would I ever fill up all this space? Ha. Ha. Just a few years later and I wonder at my own naiveté. During this time one of my grandmothers passed away and the other downsized. And then truckloads of furniture, books (more books!), linens, toys, and who knows what else descended upon us.

Don’t get me wrong. These are lovely things. Beautiful and meaningful things. But THINGS. Things that we must move, care for, clean, and (inevitably—we do have children after all) repair. Things are a burden!—who knew! Even getting RID of things is a huge task.

And this is just “grownup” things. The kids are a whole other universe of things.

I swear I don’t ever buy my kids toys, yet I pick up roughly one thousand small, brightly colored objects from the floor every day. And the socks. The sheer number of tiny mismatched socks is enough to give me a panic attack *right* *now.*

And if all of this is making my palms sweat now, just imagine how I felt when I was 9 months pregnant and roughly the size of a beached whale. I was tired of digging play-mobile people and single socks (socks!!) out from underneath the couch.

In addition to this not unreasonable pregnant frustration, I was also, in my new minimalism, keenly aware of the rampant consumerism and materialism that pervades our culture. I recognized that so often I was complicit, saw that my little daughter, when confronted with shining packages of Disney princesses, looked, hesitated not a moment--and was undone. Things, I thought, are an addiction, a drug. And I didn’t want that for myself or my family.  I wanted my home to be a place for people and not things. I wanted the things in my home to be either beautiful, useful—or both. Things that reflected and strengthened relationships, rather than crowding them out.

These were the better motives for my new minimalism.

But there were other motives, less noble.

Some nights I found myself frantically searching online for images of minimalist homes: homes with no toys, homes with hardly anything in sight. “There are no toys on the floor,” I said to myself gazing on in awe and (dare I say it?) something like lust. And then suddenly the observation changed. “There are no toys” became “there are no children.”

And this was the dangerous part. Because part of my minimalism was more than a mere rejection of “stuff” and the burden of “stuff,” it was, in its worst moments, a rejection of the people and relationships associated with the stuff. Because people are burdens. Relationships are messy.

Part of me wanted to get rid, not just of the things, but of the people attached to the things. “Why can’t you people just leave me alone?!” All I want is to be alone in a white room with nothing in it: no responsibilities, no emotions, no mess…and no socks.

I think it was the socks that finally got me to recognize the darker side of my “minimalism.” I was sorting socks. And there were a lot of socks. In a moment of frustration I declared to my husband (who happened to be passing) that I was going to throw away all of the socks. Then there would be no more socks to dig out from under the couch, no sweaty socks to wash, no single socks to match. Just think of it! No Socks! Devin looked down at the pile, skeptical. “But we need socks!” he said. And I knew he was right. We need socks: dry socks, clean socks, matching socks. The only way to get rid of the socks is to get rid of the people who need socks.

Minimalism can go wrong when it forgets that we are human and humans need things--because we *are* things: fleshy, physical, relational. We aren’t just souls, meant for contemplation and solitude. We are bodies and families and we need to eat and sleep and play. We need houses and food and beds and toys. And socks. 

This meditation is timely because (if you haven’t noticed) we are now deep in the Holiday season, when things (and things and things) are what everyone is doing and thinking about. Our consumer culture insists that “things” are what it’s all about: lots and lots of things under the tree and in the stocking so GET TO THE MALL! And I think we all can agree that this is a perversion of the Christmas spirit.

But no matter how we feel about materialism and greed, there is another kind of “thing” which comes with Christmas:

There is the advent wreath, lovingly decorated with greenery from the garden, the candles lit night by night as the family sings together (though sometimes out of tune). 

There is the tree, brought home with much pageantry, installed with wailing and gnashing of teeth (at least in my house), yet a thing of beauty, wonder; the children lie underneath it and look up through the lit branches. 

There are the ornaments, some passed down through several generations, some made with macaroni and glitter, but all meaningful, all embodying a memory, a person, a relationship.

Things are not evil. And sometimes things can be more than things: they can even be sacramental.

There are lots of stuff-objects-things to deal with at Christmas time, and I think it is an appropriate time to think about things, and the physical nature, the thingy-ness, of our own human reality. Because this is the time of Incarnation, when we celebrate the fact that God became a baby, that Spirit became…a thing. If God did not scorn “things” then neither should we. God became a child and played with toys. God became a carpenter and worked with tools. He made breakfast for his friends. He gave bread, wine. He rode a donkey. He wore sandals (if not socks).

Farmhouse Update

So just in case anyone had gotten the crazy idea that we have it all together (ha. ha.) here is a house update to disabuse you of such silly notions.

Renovation at Wise Road has reached the constructive stage, in other words, the demolition is finished and now “all” we have to do is put everything back. Anyone who has done any renovation knows that, of course, the constructive stage is almost infinitely more difficult than demolition. Demolition is fun.  It makes a lot of mess, and you fill a couple of dumpsters, and you feel like you have accomplished lots and lots. Then you realize… “Oh, I have no walls, and no sink, and no toilet.” And then you must argue and fight with your contractors about the walls, the sink, the toilet…and the siding, and the paint, and the trim, and the windows, and the electrical. You know the drill.

So this has what has been accomplished at Wise Road to date: the walls are framed, the drywall finished. The siding is on, but not painted. Apparently, “people in the country” don’t paint their siding. Or so say our contractors, to explain their surprise when we gave them our paint color of choice. Apparently this wasn’t included in the quote for the exterior.

Maybe you are getting the feeling (Devin and I certainly are) that our contractors *might* be trying to rip us off. As the project progresses more and more items (essential items, I would say) have become “extra.” Like exterior AND interior painting. Like insulation. And apparently the stain that *we* want on the floors is about $1000 extra. But not to worry, no extra charge on the Tang-colored stain the floor guys have in their van. Anyway, the $$$ have really started to stack up and we still have not spent a night in the house.

So we have started contracting for ourselves to save money. And we decided to paint ourselves. Painting is the one renovation task we feel confident enough to undertake. Wait. Did I say "feel"--present tense? Sorry, let me try this again: painting is one renovation task we *FELT* (past tense) confident to undertake. 

Here we are, still feeling confident.

So last weekend the kids went to stay with their (amazing) grandparents while we went up and painted for two days. Surely, we said to ourselves, we can paint one tiny little house one shade of white in one weekend? Not so. We worked like mad for two full days with hardly a break to use the toilet (oh wait, we don’t have a toilet…), and we didn’t finish.

This was very disappointing, mostly because the floor people were coming in the next day and painting is better before the floor is done, for obvious reasons.

They went on and sanded the floor. Then they got to the kids’ room, which, if you recall, used to be the kitchen. And there they stopped, because under all the dust and crap there is a solid sheet of asbestos. Not tiles, a sheet. We knew it was there, and we (mistakenly) assumed that our contractors, who we had just paid many dollars to rip up the old floor, would have taken up this mess as well. But no. They had not. And they did not plan to. They suggested that maybe Devin and I would like to tear it up ourselves.

So a couple days after our failed painting trip we farmed out the children yet again and headed back up to the house to try our hand at asbestos removal.

We had to go up there anyway because we had to meet our carpenter (the one *we* found. Apparently our contractors don’t know any carpenters). Now our carpenter was up there putting in The Doors.

The Doors… (Cue ominous music.)

Old Door.

There are only three doorways in the house. Three. Two bedrooms and a bathroom. We knew from experience that contractors *will* put in plastic, hollow core doors if you let them. So we had this brilliant idea that we would buy old doors from architectural salvage, with lovely brass hardware and heavy old nobs. There isn’t a lot of inherent character in the house (the previous owner saw to that), so we realized that the few details like this would be our way to restore a sense of history and integrity to the place. We had the doors up in the house for MONTHS while the contractors were doing other things. They knew from the BEGINNING that we were planning to use old doors.

So they day came when they went in to install the doors. We got a call. Apparently (I seem to be using this word a lot) they couldn’t do the job because “the doors are weird.” So they had brought in (you guessed it) plastic, hollow core doors. They were just going to put them in—in spite of my explicit instructions otherwise.

So we called up Mike, who is a carpenter.

Carpentry is a noble trade. Remember that Our Lord was a carpenter. And Mike is a good carpenter. We have so much respect for Mike. He is a craftsman and a man of integrity. I wish he could do *all* of the work on our house.

Mike drove more than an hour to Wise Road. When he got there the power was off. He problem solved and hooked up his tools to an exterior power-line (?!). Then he realized that we had gotten a door that opened on the wrong side. Then he realized that we had bought *one* hinge that was the wrong size. Then he realized that one of the doors we had brought was warped and unusable. An on and on. Basically everything that could possibly go wrong with the doors went wrong. And it was all our fault. But Mike powered through. Despite everything we have our (old) new doors installed.

While Mike was Getting It Done, Devin and I were madly scraping up asbestos.

Floor of Death.

We worked for a long time and maybe scraped up 5 square feet, not even a fourth of the room.  We don’t have time to do this job, and since cash is running short as well, I think we are going to have to carpet this room, at least for the time being. Maybe later we can go back and finish the job properly.

I hate that we are going to have to do this. I hate how we have failed over and over again: the painting, the doors, the floors, and many other aspects. Our own stupidity, ignorance, overconfidence have combined with lack of time, lack of energy, lack of funds to create some major issues.

So this wasn’t such a good week. Here’s hoping that the next update will bring some sunshine!!

I will say that I am excited about the floors. I am so happy that we were able to salvage the original wood, at least in most of the house.

I also like the painting I was able to finish. Here is a picture of what will be the living room:

There will be wallpaper to the left of the door.

House Tour: The Master Bedroom

Today is the first installment of my Deep Clean House Tour!

As I embarked upon my cleaning journey I was unsure where to begin. Which room was worthy to initiate this grand endeavor? I firmly believe that each house has a spiritual/emotional center, the location of its “soul.” This room should remain, in any home, impeccably clean, welcoming, etc. because the life-force of the home flows from it. My first task, I decided, was to find this “center” in my own house. 

Many would argue that, in most homes, this center of the home, and indeed the center of family life, is the kitchen. And indeed, as someone who places a high emphasis on physical nourishment and good fellowship in good feasting, I was tempted to start my Deep Clean in the kitchen. In fact, the great cleaning Authority over at FlyLady insists that a clean and happy home begins with an immaculate (polished!) sink.

However, I have been reading this book, written by my beloved Auntie Leila. She, wise woman that she is, locates the “center” of the home not in the kitchen but—in the Master Bedroom.

Why? Just think. We are Catholic after all, and we hold a very sacramental view of family life, and the family finds its source and strength in the sacrament of marriage—and more specifically, in the marriage bed!

(Are you blushing?)

But seriously. The marriage bed is *literally* the “source of life” in the family home. For if it weren’t for the sacrament of marriage which is, of course, enacted *in bed!* there would be no family at all. 

(Where did all these kids come from anyway?!?)

So if I believe this about marriage, shouldn’t I treat this room, of all rooms, with great reverence? Shouldn’t my CHILDREN treat this room, of all rooms, with great reverence? If it weren't for this room, they wouldn't exist. 

And the Bible says, if you recall, that children should “Honor their father and mother and not leave legos and tiny plastic people on the floor beside their bed, lest their hoary and revered parents step upon them  and injure themselves in the night and thus bring ruin and shame upon their descendants even unto the seventh generation,  Etc.”

I have thought it over and decided that, indeed, this room should be set aside. So. No toys are allowed in our bedroom. No iphones or computers cross the threshold. I make the bed (almost!) every day, and establish order in this place before I attempt to establish it anywhere else. After all this, it seems only logical to begin my deep clean here.

So without further ado here 'tis:

Now I will be all design-bloggy and give you sources:

The bedspread and bedskirt are from Anthropologie.

The pillows are made from vintage kimonos and purchased at Black Bamboo.

The “El Espiritu” print is from Hammer Press (purchased while I was in labor with Hattie).

The nativity scene is Mexican. I have had it since I can remember. (Used to have more shepherds!)

The painting on the mantle is an antique station of the cross salvaged from a church and purchased by Devin for our anniversary.

The Chinese horse Devin bought for me in China while we were dating.

The sketched portrait is by local artist Paulina Everett

The two small paintings of roses are by Devin’s grandmother.

The rug is also from Devin’s grandmother, purchased while she lived in Afghanistan in the fifties.

The English antique chest and pedestal table (bedside tables) were my grandmother’s.

House Tour, or, The Deep Clean

For years I have been meaning to take photos of our house here in Kansas City. The only ones I have are shots of the empty rooms right before we moved in (and before we had children). I am always planning to get out my camera in those rare moments when the children aren’t around, but something always stops me. I am waiting, I suppose, for the Perfect Moment when all the rooms are a.) clean, b.) toy-free, and c.) “finished,” i.e. “decorated.” Considering my life right now (and my lovely children) this “Perfect Moment” will never, ever, arrive.

Obviously.

But still, I should really take pictures of my house. Because I love my house. And though it is rarely perfectly clean and never perfectly neat, it has become, even in the few short years we have lived here, a home: a place of rest, good fellowship, and joy. It is filled with good food, good memories, beautiful and meaningful things, and—most importantly—beautiful people (two of whom possess more tiny plastic toys than I would have thought possible considering that their mother doesn’t “believe” in plastic toys. But I digress).

Anyway, this Autumn I decided to supply this lack of photos even as I undertake another major household task: the Deep Clean.

For though I have a (fairly) successful rhythm that keeps the house “reasonably” clean, I have noticed that  dust gathers in certain unused corners, that there is grime on the baseboards, that vast and untold riches lurk beneath the playroom sofa…

So now that Hattie goes to “school” a couple of mornings a week I hope to undertake a thorough room by room purge and clean. Then, once the room is “done,” I will take a picture—quickly, before anyone builds a playmobile town under the table or grinds cracker into the rug.

So stay tuned for the first installment of my Deep Clean House Tour, scheduled for tomorrow!