I’ve hit what I have termed the Molasses Stage of pregnancy where moving quickly seems impossible–unless some sort of caffeine stimulant were involved–and we all know that is on the Uh-Uh-Uh (insert mental image of wagging finger) List. And it sucks. Former me operated in an accelerated mode. Revved up was my default setting. Now I’m huffing and puffing on the walk JB and I always considered “the short walk”, and the moment I crest the hill (a minor incline to non-pregnant persons, Mt. Everest, to me), I’m declaring, “I did it!” between gasping breaths with not the slightest bit of sarcasm.
Flipping over in bed (the expectant mother is advised to avoid sleeping on her back in favor of lying on her left side; right is second best although that may smoosh her liver, to allow the greatest blood flow to both baby and her legs, these legs that may still awaken her, regardless, cramped with Charlie Horses with ridiculous regularity, each morning just before 6 am) has become a very big deal. Each flip is accompanied by grunts and moans as though it is the greatest of Herculean efforts. And, for me, it is. As I explained to my Ob-Gyn, “It’s like there’s a hard cover dictionary strapped to my stomach.” “Well,” she says, “there kind of is.” “Well,” I add, “this dictionary can kick!”
This window was replaced with the one you see below–for better or worse. I actually loved the minimalism of the original one and freaked out when I saw the heavy mullions of the new one, but the client (JB, in this case) insisted dual pane was a necessity and he preferred the modern look of the replacement.
Big improvement! Not only did JB build a pretty fence to cover the strange looking existing one, but he fastened wires so the newly planted passion fruit vine can be trained to espalier. Now it’s, almost, a room with a view.
The other day, walking from the car to the entrance of Trader Joe’s, I thought the arch in my left foot might give out. Then it righted itself. Such is this new life. I explained to my friend who tells me what it’s like to have a new baby, whom I remind what it was like to be pregnant, there is a constant toggle between sitting, “Ahhh,” to standing, “Ooh, I can’t sit for another second,” to needing to sit again. I’ve read over and over that that those with buns in the oven are not supposed to be on their feet for very long, even when preparing food that must go in an oven that, thus, requires some standing while chopping, dicing, stirring and the lot. I thought that must only apply to other pregnant people because I was feeling fine. But now, I’m not. At 32 weeks, my belly has grown to be low and egg-shaped, a la Humpty Dumpty, and it’s darn heavy to heave around.
And the heat, the heat that I used to love! It couldn’t have been me who used to recoil at the sight of Halloween decorations in the stores when we were only in September. “Slow down!” I’d say. When Christmas decor began it’s early infiltration I cringed at the thought of the shadowy, shortened days that would soon be upon is. “Stop the clock at summer,” I’d lament. “Summer months are for truly living. They only give us major holidays in fall/winter to focus on so we make it out alive.” And now? I long for the chill, dream of sweaters and blankets and not feeling like I’m melting every moment. Heat has become my Kryptonite and I yearn to shiver. Cold weather, I’m, waiting for you. Hurry, please!
We decided to raise the sight line of our doors by replacing the 6′ 8″ doors with 7′ tall doors. Surprise, when the installer uncovered the existing headers they were all too wimpy to use and had to be replaced with beefier ones which means we have been staring at exposed headers, like this one, for quite a long time. Charming, no?
We had the “clever” but almost budget-breaking idea of moving the furnace into the attic to 1) gain storage and 2) move the intake vent that greeted you at the bottom of the entry wall to the hall ceiling where it is now less conspicuous.
We pulled off the door trim and opted for the more modern, no-trim, look achieved through square-edge bullnose and a huge chunk of the budget. (We came to realize it would have been half as expensive to tack on trim. Arghh.)
Note-to-self: trying not to breathe while at home is next to impossible, if not deadly, so maybe trying to fit a remodel in while pregnant was a loopy idea. Drywall dust coats every surface in our house with its snowy powder. The poor baby probably thinks it’s gestating during war time what with all the racket of construction sounds. Pounding hammers, screeching saws, the slam of wood as it hits the scrap pile, the recurrent yelling at Moki to return the roll of drywall tape, electrical tape, or drill bit he just stole, “This minute!”: it’s all very loud and probably a lot for a fetus to have to bear. It’s a lot for the fetus’s mother to bear!
The existing toggle switches have been replaced by faux knob and tube switches as a nod to our design concept that straddles old/new. The plates will be brushed nickel to match the door levers.
In an effort to decrease the great amount of dirt that tumbles down and sullies our new concrete stairs (as evidenced in this photo), JB is reusing the wood from our former pergola and turning it into a secondary retaining wall with an extra landing at the top. El Nino, we’re ready for you!
Then there was yesterday when I realized the job site I was standing in that had just finished demo the day before had walls painted with lead paint. Lead paint!? Yes, lead paint in a 1920s house. The client/owner was kind enough to rush me out of the house and continue our meeting elsewhere to spare me from inhaling any more fine lead powder (ack!! panic sets in at the typing of those words). I need to be back on site on Monday, but, will bring a dust mask and might even wear my respirator, fashion be damned, in favor of protecting a fetus!