The movers are booked for tomorrow. My husband has been packing for days. The cats are freaked out, the children’s room is somehow magically both packed and a complete mess, and the kitchen is bare. After living in a small apartment during almost nine months of renovations, we are ready to go home.
(Originally, these renovations were supposed to take four months, but then it turned out our kitchen was actually the old stable, and it wasn’t exactly firmly attached to the house and the foundation was, well, somewhat less than stable. The project grew.)
The builders have been putting the finishing touches on the house. For me, finishing touches are things like putting up the light fixtures and putting down the carpet. For them, apparently, finishing touches include things like moving the plumbing in the basement so that the bathrooms drain more effectively – or something like that. And yesterday, as they dug into the basement floor, they discovered – completely by accident – that our 110+ year old house still had pipes made of clay.
Notice the use of the past tense. The pipes disintegrated.
Did I mention that we are supposed to move in tomorrow? Unfortunately, when the inspector came yesterday – right after the whole, “oops, my shovel went right through that pipe” debacle – he declared the house “unfit for occupancy.”
Luckily, our (truly amazing) builder has already fixed the pipe problem. Unluckily, booking a housing inspector requires *at least* 24-hours notice. So… the movers come tomorrow but we can’t actually stay in our house until Monday. Or maybe Tuesday. Also, Andre – who is wildly prepared – had already packed all of the food, most of the kitchen and all but two sets of clothes for him and the boys. I’m the only slacker and, thus, the only one with clothes.
Now, I will admit to feeling a little sick about all of this, but my 12 year old’s over-the-top pre-teen reaction helped me put things in perspective. Upon hearing about the pipes, he heaved a giant sigh and threw himself onto the couch: “I just knew something like this was going to happen. I am literally going to die if we have to stay in this apartment.”
I mean, he might die, but we’ve lasted nine months. It seems like we can make another three days. Right?