There’ve been a few things in life that brought me sheer joy. The kinds of things that drop me to my knees in gratitude, kissing the ground because…well, because why not, it’s something people in the throes of joy do. Things that swept me off my feet in terms of my word, this is life changing and I will never forget this moment even if I live to be 105.
Finishing our bathroom remodel was one of those moments.
I know, I know…it’s not curing cancer or finding a solution to hunger, but it rocked my world. There. I said it.
I fully own that these are first world problems because hey, any indoor plumbing at all, can I get a hell yeah? But finding that moldy and rotting subfloor beneath our shower’s tile was beyond distressing. There was the psychological factor of omg, how long has it been like this, and how long is it going to take to fix, and how am I gonna live anything resembling my real life while they do. Then there was the physical trauma – how long had I been breathing crap into my lungs, the illnesses I lived with while they tore out and removed the bathroom materials, how my body reacted when I passed through that space to get something from my closet during demo and construction.
Compared to all that, sharing a bathroom with my 13-year-old son was relatively painless. Although I don’t know if he’d say the same.
At any rate, after a number of blips and blunders (all of which were fixed by our second contractor, a group I shall forever refer to as The Saviors of Our Master Bath) the remodel was finally complete at the end of November. Yep, you read that right. September, October, November, plus those two weeks in August – three and a half months of insanity in our house. It’s kind of a miracle we all made it to the other side.
But when we did…my word. I stand in this room now and am blissfully, ridiculously, unbelievably happy. It is my peaceful space, and I am ever so grateful for it.