It started out with just wanting a bigger nook. Then we said the three words Dr. Phil says are the worst three words in the world when you put them together: "Might as well." I think I'm far enough along in my PRSR (Post Remodel Sanity Recovery) that I can write about it now…
We love our sixty-year-old "cute” (why do I hate it when people call it that—it is) cape cod in our tree lined neighborhood in Portland, Oregon. It’s just the kind of home we hope to raise a family in. But it’s frustrating. We have no front entry and visitors trip over the threshold on their way into our living room. Once inside, there’s nowhere to put shoes or purses or coats. Our kitchen nook’s quaint. Perfect for the two of us, but no more. We do have what one guest generously referred to as a mud room in back. It’s really just a landing with coat hooks and stairs going up and down—“Be careful not to fall down the stairs while you’re hanging up your coat”—but it’s better than nothing.
We debate for years. Move or remodel? Remodel or move? Our decision’s happening about as fast as I’m getting pregnant—meaning it’s dragging on for over a decade. Plus, we live on a 55 x 100 lot. More house means less yard. When we're finally blessed with our son, we decide it’s time to act.
We debate for years. Move or remodel? Remodel or move? Our decision’s happening about as fast as I’m getting pregnant—meaning it’s dragging on for over a decade. Plus, we live on a 55 x 100 lot. More house means less yard. When we're finally blessed with our son, we decide it’s time to act.
Our contractor drops by while we’re having our outdoor paint burned off—he lets us know we’d better get Drew tested for lead poisoning. We move to my sister's home and count our blessings when Drew tests okay. Though the lead paint spooks us, we hire an architect and commission some drawings. Unfortunately, as my husband puts it, “The plan’s a dog”—just an awkward expansion of our old nook, with the same-size kitchen and no mudroom.
Six years go by. It’s 2005 and the housing market’s going crazy. A close friend jokes we’re never going to do anything. It’s just the push I need. “Let’s move before it’s too late!” We find a house a few blocks away with what we’re looking for: an open floor plan, a bigger yard. And a mud room! We make a full-price offer (hey, it’s the housing boom). No surprise—it's accepted.
Tears. Lots of them. Apparently, I don’t want to move (have I mentioned I get kind of attached?) So back to remodeling. We hire the same architect, rationalizing that he kinda knows what we want. Plus we’ve already paid for all those measurements and he knows what we don't want.
Our architect takes all new measurements. We tell him we "might as well" add a guest bedroom and bath in the basement to go along with our new nook/family room on the main floor and master bath upstairs. He argues with us. He doesn’t think we should excavate. We insist. He reluctantly agrees. But he isn’t happy.
We wait a year until our new contractor’s available (our old contractor's taken his housing boom profits and retired to Arizona). It’s June of 2006. Perfect. We’ll be done by Christmas. We tell our neighbors to prepare for what’s ahead. Our agreeable next-door neighbor takes a sip of wine and laughs.
Six years go by. It’s 2005 and the housing market’s going crazy. A close friend jokes we’re never going to do anything. It’s just the push I need. “Let’s move before it’s too late!” We find a house a few blocks away with what we’re looking for: an open floor plan, a bigger yard. And a mud room! We make a full-price offer (hey, it’s the housing boom). No surprise—it's accepted.
Tears. Lots of them. Apparently, I don’t want to move (have I mentioned I get kind of attached?) So back to remodeling. We hire the same architect, rationalizing that he kinda knows what we want. Plus we’ve already paid for all those measurements and he knows what we don't want.
Our architect takes all new measurements. We tell him we "might as well" add a guest bedroom and bath in the basement to go along with our new nook/family room on the main floor and master bath upstairs. He argues with us. He doesn’t think we should excavate. We insist. He reluctantly agrees. But he isn’t happy.
We wait a year until our new contractor’s available (our old contractor's taken his housing boom profits and retired to Arizona). It’s June of 2006. Perfect. We’ll be done by Christmas. We tell our neighbors to prepare for what’s ahead. Our agreeable next-door neighbor takes a sip of wine and laughs.
Next day, here come the excavation trucks. And here comes our next-door neighbor’s eighty-year-old mom, who’s visiting from out of town. “What the heck are you doing in your side yard? It looks like a mass grave! Are you getting ready to bury people? I’m calling my lawyer-son in San Diego!” I call Mike at work, “We’re not in Kansas anymore.” To be continued...
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