Having spent much of my life supported by physical order and the knowability of structure, I have said - at least 100 thousand times:
I am not the kind of person who does that. And by
that, to be clear, I mean any number of things - going to a rave, jumping out of a plane, eating bugs, camping. But never have I used that phrase so often as when I'm discussing renovations. Which is kind of strange since, prior to now, we have done one major structural reno on the house (the third floor) and numerous smaller ones (a bathroom, for example). It's not like I've never done this before.
Last week, we decided (like every idiot who's ever done a major renovation) to increase the scope of the project in a rather meaningful way (financially and structurally), at which point it came to me viscerally: I
am the kind of person who does this. I mean, not only am I doing it, but I'm doing it
more.
On the rollercoaster that is this project, somewhere between the hideous height and that ok plateau that goes through the splashy water feature, I can tell you I would do a bat-shit crazy, absurdly expensive reno any day before I'd parent a baby. I think I may be finally coming to terms with how tortuously anxious I was as a new mother. I was unceasingly panicked at the thought of losing my child (after a pretty fucking horrible first few days). My hyper vigilance was my way of convincing myself that I could forestall danger, the unacceptability of loss. If only I used my will and constancy, if I did it well enough, then everything would work out. And in the process I became a shell. (OCD peeps, it's not just lots of hand-washing.)
But this is not about that. This is about how, while it may take me a while to get there, once I make a commitment I am all-fucking in. Really. There is no half-measure. (Again, likely a function of my neurochemistry or, shall we say, my personality.)
Brief sidebar in case you follow me on Instagram: The fucking builders haven't even started the fucking framing that was supposed to begin last week during a projected 7-10 rain-free days which are now inching towards a close. I don't even know if the timber has arrived. So I'm not getting all "I love renos" cuz we've broken the back of this...
I said that my ideal renovation would, without changing the size of my house one square inch, cost approx 800K. I'm now flirting with that cost zone, for what it's worth, getting closer to it than I ever thought I would for, like, every good reason on the planet. And yet, the time not to spend was before I signed-off on a huge project that was unquestionably going to cost a whack of money. Now I'm doing it and I'm not going to forego something potentially spectacular because of a momentary little thing like a budget. (Note: I make these sorts of decisions with financial advice and, so far, this still looks like a good idea on paper, even if it sounds insane. Sure, could I be richer if I never did anything? Absolutely. But I'm not leaving my freakin' money to the cat orphanage and my kid will have an eventual place to live - or a shit ton of money to go somewhere else with.)
The scope increase, which should be doable "on time" (so hilarious because that concept is profoundly MEANINGLESS - what they're saying is that it will simply add to the vortex of "extra") sounds lite but is rather destructive (before it is reconstructive), even as it won't be anywhere near as destructive as everyone assumed. We're going to open the wall between the staircase and the dining room to allow light to get from the front to the back of my shotgun house. It's pretty clear that this will bring a really attractive reno into the realm of sensational. Like, Architectural Digest good.
Why have I resisted this - my mother's recommendation, please note, or she will be very displeased... Not because of the cost or extra time but because it means I'm going to have to destroy my original, Century dining room. And if you've known me for, um, an hour and a half, you know that I a) love my freakin' dining room and b) believe that one is a steward of history, not a killer of it.
See, given that it's a load sharing wall (dead in the middle of 3 houses that are partially attached), we're going to have to open the walls to put stabilizing beams in. And, more meaningfully, we're going to have to tear up the ceiling - with its plaster and foot-deep molding and rosette - to reinforce the joists of the second floor.
On the plus side (no joke), there doesn't appear to be any duct work running through that wall so we won't have to trash the entranceway too. At this point, there will remain but 3 original rooms in this house and every other one will have been gutted and/or torn down and rebuilt.
This is the equivalent of building from scratch when you live in a row house. Only it costs more and takes longer.
But, as Scott genius-ly suggested, to turn my mind around, those before us renovated thoughtlessly, and trashed a lot of history, leaving dysfunctional remnants. It's true. Also, apparently I can recreate my dining room so that all of the features will be recaptured (potentially even with reclaimed materials). It's making a philosophical sacrifice to create a new architecture that will be beautiful and well-made enough to survive for another century. Actually, to survive better. And since the builders accidentally wrecked the westernmost plaster wall in the dining room, when they tore off my kitchen, I've had to come to terms with the loss of some history already. (And yeah, that didn't go over well...)
Is this spin? Absolutely. But I'm on board. (And, please don't judge. The retro-fitting of one's principles is difficult.)
You know those shows on HGTV where the people work with architects and engineers and make crazy changes to their homes and it's painful to watch because they are insane with the scope change and the unknowns that become problems that need to be solved by doing more work? You know how you watch gleefully, maybe with a glass of wine, and you think:
Lord, those idiots. Why did they do that? That cost is ABSURD. Do they really need to undertake additional unnecessary project X? God, look at that rotting beam they now have to fix and the foundation disasters and the boulder in the backyard that's too big to move. And then you take another handful of popcorn. (I really miss popcorn.)
People, I actually don't care about those shows anymore. They cause no anxiety. In fact, half the time what those crazy people are doing is functionally less crazy than what we have already undertaken. I'm on the dark-side. We're half way between here and there and I'm experienced enough now to know that I cannot control the outcome with my rumination. This is dangerous and unknown, just like raising a human being. But I am the person doing this and I'm not going to apologize for or undervalue it. We may be nuts, but we're also visionary. And that's worth a lot of money, time and effort to me - apparently.
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