My Two Houses

I have been married to a carpenter for a long time. Almost 18 years. My house is still being built. It is never done. Ever. Don't get me wrong, I am happy there is usually a project going on. For a long time I lived in an imaginary house of my carpenter husband's making. He would 'show me' the house we would eventually live in drawing in the air placing walls here, ceilings and floors there, pocket doors and beautiful views of waterfalls and budding fruit trees dotting the landscape. His imaginary house was so detailed and realistic that I actually felt the airiness and room, and could stretch out and feel much more comfortable then in these little ole' cramped quarters in which I dwell.

Fred, God bless him, has a creative streak a mile long. He has built and torn down and rebuilt that imaginary house a few thousand times over the years. Heck, we've up and moved  at least 7 or 8 times mentally in the last 3  just to 'try out' different surroundings and create the ideal home for our ever growing family. BUT, some time about a year ago I had enough of the imaginary house. I am not sure exactly what the proverbial straw that broke the camels back was. Maybe it was the 18th million pile of laundry done, or the kids battling again on a bedroom floor, or maybe it was the dinner table. Yes,  in the end, I think it was the dinner table. We have a lovely long Amish style dinner table ( thanks to my brother Greg- which is a story in itself that deserves another post.) I like to cook and I do so every night. Like clock-work we all pile in to the kitchen between 5 and 6 o'clock and proceed to gather for what should be a family moment. At least that is always what I set out to do.

 Most nights it looks more like a cattle car moving through a German countryside as we squirm our way through a meal.I do my best to anticipate every single need ahead of time to save all of us the sheer agony of having to rearrange ourselves in the undersized kitchen once we have begun. There are 12 of us after all. Yes, we are all different sizes, some big and some small,but that doesn't help the situation very much.High chairs, it actually turns out, add to the confusion by taking up way more space then normal chairs. My little darlings also have a knack for seeing the high chair for what it is -prison seating for infants.They view it as as a place to be broken free from. Inevitably in the midst of every meal someone will shout out "MOM" in a certain tone that needs no further explanation, and I will turn to find my littlest child perched on the very edge of the tray waiting to tumble to the floor.I have actually calculated this feat into my aerobic plan as a means to take a few extra bites of food most nights,as I am positive the scare alone is enough to work off about 60 calories.

As any of you who have children know, the seating arrangement is a delicate balance  in itself. It takes the genius of Professor Layton to know which siblings can or cannot be placed next to one another in the proper order to keep all hell from breaking loose on any given Monday.  I am not sure how many angels can dance on the head of a pin, but I am absolutely positive they can't dance on my dining room table- it is just way too crowded in that space. Inevitably someone will need something that requires the shift of at least half a dozen people to obtain. Sometimes it is not too bad- just a small slide of a chair ( hopefully not catching anyone's fingers or toes in the process) other times, like when we need an item from the fridge, things get ugly. We may even have to move the whole table to make that happen.

So, about a year ago, at one such meal I finally decided I was done. With about as much disgust I could muster without yelling, I must have growled "We NEED a new kitchen." And miraculously my wonderful husband agreed. ( For the record, I think my children exaggerate when they describe the distortions in my face that brought about the miraculous change in my husbands countenance. I hardly believe I could have fire shooting from my eyes dear children.)

Last Summer we began our project. We boldly set out to double the size of the kitchen, add a screen porch, add a bedroom, and double the size of the basement. Fred dutifully applied for the permits, drew up plans, ordered materials and began to dig. By the afternoon of the first day he hit a spring in the earth and turned to me and said "should I quit?" Against my better judgment I said "NO" and went back inside to let him deal with the problems. Too bad the spring wasn't imaginary. Nope, that was real water bubbling up through the imaginary-ahem, I mean future, basement floor. The second week Fred's beloved back-hoe broke. He came in and said to me "should I quit?" and I dutifully said "NO" and sent him back out to deal with those problems also. And so the building has gone this way for the last 6 months. If Fred works on other people's houses all goes smoothly, but on his own house Murphy's laws prevail.

My kitchen used to drive me crazy because it was too small. It was cramped and squishy and inefficient. Now I have my kitchen and in addition, a new kitchen just outside the back door that is also not ready for use. When I look out my 'old' kitchen window I stare into a new kitchen that is unfinished. It awaits a heating system, lighting, flooring, cabinetry, and appliances. I don't know when it will be finished. We continue to plug away at it and we do make progress, sometimes in great spurts. A wall separates the two living spaces and we speak of 'breaking through' in more of a metaphor then a reality most days. The 'veil' being lifted between heaven and earth requires bodily death, and so too it seems there will have to be at least the throws of agony before my two houses are reconciled, one to the other.

Our Lord tells us  a house divided cannot stand.I beg to differ.Obviously He has not tried to have dinner in either of my two kitchens.