Okay, EXCEPT for the interest in my teenager, the workers were great. They didn’t even get upset with me when the contractor scolded them for leaving the house without a single exterior light. That wasn’t their fault. The house has no porch lights, flood lights, doorbell, or house numbers because I took forever to choose the new lighting and hardware. There are sooo many different options to choose from and I struggled with finding a balance between my desire for whimsy and not wanting an accidental homage to Prince Mongo.

All of this is a roundabout way of saying that I am very thankful and slightly apologetic to the workers who are responsible for making our home sturdier, safer, and infinitely more attractive.

If we are ever again fortunate enough to hire help with the house, I am going to add a detailed clean-up page to the contract before we sign it.

Prior to this week’s construction, Evan would periodically claim that our house is “too broken.” It was. In the winter, you could stand outside and watch the heat escaping the house. Inside the house, there was a noticeable breeze from the cracked and broken windows. One window flapped open and shut every time the front door opened or closed. Duct tape covered the cracks and gaping holes. It was atrocious.

In the grand scheme of everything that is broken in our 1940s house that is bursting at the seams with twice the number of people and far more “stuff” than it was designed to hold, new roof, siding, and windows might seem like they are only the exterior repairs. They are proving to be so much more than superficial. It is repairing something deep inside of us that we didn’t know was broken.

I can’t fathom what Evan would say if we painted and repaired the Lego storage and assembly area aka Evan’s room.

Apparently, what they heard was, ‘Mom wants something done around here.’ Their application of this interpretation was to spend the December weekend putting out grass seed and aerating our very large lot.

The aerating machine completely covered the yard in giant dirt plugs. The short bus dog believed those dirt plugs were snacks from the cat and spent an entire day trying to eat all the dirt plugs. I don’t know if the dog forgot that it tasted like dirt after each and every bite or if she was eternally optimistic that the next one would taste like something other than dirt. I only know that I am a sympathetic puker and the mere thought of the dog barfing up mud puddles made my stomach hurt.

A few days later, it was the evening before Doug’s parents arrived and I repeated my request for help with the cleaning. Let be more specific. I said, “Please help me scrub the floors.” I have no idea what anyone actually heard. Their response was to completely empty the bathroom contents all over the living room floor and start working on the floor trim that has been ignored since last January. They weren’t making the bathroom sink functional. They were putting a row of tile on the walls.

It’s impossible to get upset with well-intentioned efforts, but if eye-rolling created muscles, I would be able to see the craters on the moon without a telescope.