We just learned our home requires some renovations. The initial estimate was enough to make me feel a bit sick. Then the contractor warned it could be higher once they get in there and really investigate.
Now, our house is nothing special–just a little 1940’s bungalow. I like it because it’s cute and cosy and it has character. (In my part of the world, a 1940’s house is considered a heritage or character home.) However, recent events are turning me against the family castle.
Because nothing that sucks ever happens in isolation, more badness was on its way.
My boy was invited to a friend’s house to hang out, play some video games and perhaps watch a movie. He wasn’t able to go and was a bit disappointed because he had to miss it.
Being the supportive mom I suggested he have the gang over to our house another night. (He never invites people over.)
“Why not?” I asked, adding (because I’m in the hate cycle of my love/hate relationship with our home.) “Don’t you like our house?”
Violating the rule not to ask a question if you don’t want to hear the answer, I asked. “What? Are you ashamed of our house, or something?”
I was surprised (still am) how much that hurt my feelings.
Sigh–I’m going to need more nature walks to salve this.