It’s a slow process, making changes in the house I moved into so I feel like it’s more “ours” and less “I moved into someone else’s home,” especially when the horde grew up here and change often causes… feelings. I also am terrible at finishing things, which is relevant to this story.
So, a few months ago (yes, months) I started painting the bathroom a lovely dark teal color, which weirdly compliments the SUNSET ORANGE in the part of the bathroom with the shower. I hate yellow and orange. Sorry, but it’s true. However SK loves it (it’s bright and cheerful which is useful at 6am), so in compromise I’m slowly changing the bathroom spaces into a sort of Caribbean theme. Anyway, I did the first half and got distracted.
This past weekend, SK finished the other half (he’s truly a better and cleaner painter than me), which involved taking the access panel behind the tub off the wall. Our bathroom is split, you see, with a door between the sink/toilet area and the tub/shower area, and the tub access panel is next to the toilet.
fAngus, of course, decided under/behind the tub was THE PLACE to investigate, because holy crap it was new and interesting. So, I woke up the other day to frantic scratching. I thought he’d accidentally gotten trapped in the bathroom and was scratching at the door: it’s happened on occasion.
Oh no, he’d managed to slink his way around the base of the tub to the other side of the access panel opening, where he was stuck and couldn’t get past the water lines to get our. He was panic-scratching the foam insulation around the vent pipe, then trying to shove his face through the not-widening-hole in the wall. Sigh. And that’s how we ended up making a hole in the sheetrock at 7am on Monday.
The bathroom is a lovely color, now, and fAngus isn’t permanently relegated to living in the Gollum spaces in the house, so I think this is a win/win.
In this house, we often talk about how change is hard, even when it’s good. Last Yule, I had a hard time with my first holiday in this house, because it felt like there was no real room for me. We’d gotten a RIDICULOUS monstrosity of a new tree, in hopes we could fit everyone’s stuff on it, but the kids didn’t know how much I had and blissfully argued and worked together on putting all their family ornaments up. There was no room for mine. So I put what I could fit on my little tabletop tree and had some thoroughly sad moments while SK tried to find ways to support me. The then-16 year old noticed I was bummed. I told him why, and that even good change can be really hard. From the look on his face that may have been a bit of a revelation, that adults struggle with changes, too. Ultimately he and the other kids took off a bunch of old “filler” items (with no emotional attachment) and then rather jubilantly put up the rest of mine, mixing all our ornaments together across both.
We put up our decorations and trees on Sunday of Thanksgiving weekend this year, because it was a kid weekend. This time, they did the same fascinating mix of argue-collab cycle with their boxes of stuff for the big tree, then came in to dig through all my ornaments. The now-17 year old pulled me aside and asked if needed a hug, because it was hard last year, or if it’s better now. He’s an amazing wonder of kindness and empathy, that dude. It’s much better now.
The various additional Xmas accoutrement came out over the course of the last weekend (sans horde), including one of my Norwegian heritage things: an Advent wreath on the dining room table in December (yes, yes, I know Advent wreaths are not exclusively Norwegian or Lutheran, but I grew up with those flavors of it). My sisters and I often argued over who got to light and extinguish the candles, which likely was not the spirit intended by the ritual. Anyway. The first Sunday of Advent (basically count back from Xmas Eve for 4 Sundays) you light the first candle at dinner/supper, and every night after that until the 2nd Sunday, where you light the first and second candles, and so on, and so on, until the week of Christmas all four are lit with varied heights.
There is a meaning to it: in the tradition I grew up with, candles are lit in NEWS order (North/East/West/South), because when you light the last candle it’s marking the “good news of Jesus’s birth.” Each candle has its own meaning: Hope, Love, Joy, and Peace. There’s a whole deep Christian devotional tradition that goes with this, if you’re interested. I’m not into that aspect, and I don’t generally light them (my Yule activities usually center around those values) but I respect the family heritage, and the sentiment behind it.
After all, who doesn’t need more Hope, Love, Joy, and Peace, in their lives?
Sadly, the candles for my wreath may have seen some…excessive heat at some point during the sweltering midsummer heat. No idea how the Peace candle ended up bent in half, particularly without melting down into a puddle. I feel like my wonky candles, bent but not broken, are a positive sign, if you’re into that sort of thing.
They’re also freaking hilarious, therefore OF COURSE I put them out.
The horde returns tomorrow after school to a newly painted bathroom and weirdo candles, and I wonder what the reactions will be. So far, fAngus hasn’t added tooth marks, but I suspect that’s coming. Totally normal over here.
No Pithy Phrase 