This isn’t a home blog, but I’ve mentioned many times that we work on our house regularly, and that home improvement has an effect (ahem) upon our parenting and on our marriage. In fact, you may recall a good deal of pissing and moaning from me this past summer as we remodeled our kitchen. I’m weird about my space; even though I *do* want it fixed up and cute, I become a raging word-that-rhymes-with-teeotch throughout the cute-ification process. It’s how I roll.
Well, here we are in January, and the kitchen is finally done. (Clarification: a kitchen remodel, or any remodel for that matter, is never truly “done.” I’d say we’re about 97% there, and that’s good enough for me.) Walls have been knocked out and reframed. Cabinets, countertops, and appliances have been purchased and installed. Bills have been rung up and tears have been shed over them. But, best of all, meals have been prepared and enjoyed.
I hadn’t planned on writing a post on our kitchen until today, when I was happily – peacefully! – making a pot of soup for dinner and was stopped in my tracks by how beautiful our home is right now. It is the little house that could, all 850 square feet of it, all thanks to my incredible husband, who has done every bit himself. Thank you, amazing, loving, smokin-hot-in-a-toolbelt Jake.
Of course, I wouldn’t mind a few extra feet of house, and perhaps someday we’ll manage to add those. But when it comes to home, bigger isn’t always better. I’ve been in plenty of large houses that were decked out tastefully…but they weren’t home. My mom, when she was visiting last year, said that when she drove down our street at twilight, the coziest house – the house she most wanted to be inside – was ours. Coming from her, that’s a big compliment.
Here’s to making a weird, 1953 college student rental house – complete with a blood-red “accent” wall, microscopic kitchen with three drawers, and stained carpet – into a home.