Today, we completely moved out of our kitchen.
For the next 8 weeks, our existing kitchen will be gutted, re-vamped, a bathroom moved and the bloody awful swooshes that have haunted me for the past year will go away.
On Saturday, we had a Demolition party to celebrate the demise. We gave the kids markers and full permission to write on the floor, on the cabinets, (on each other), along with hammers and one very evil sledgehammer.
After only one handle of rum (god bless the sailors that pre-partied before they came to our house!) the fondly named Beam-Me-Up light was taken down, a countertop was blown away, the pantry was forcibly removed, as was a section of cupboards.
On Sunday we finished the emptying of the kitchen. The dining room has become our new kitchen, complete with the new beautiful cherry hardwood floor that Mr. H finished last week. We have a toaster oven, a portable stove, a microwave and a crockpot. Dishes will be done in the bathroom. The fridge is moving into the entry way hall (which I'm kind of excited about because it means going for a late-night snack is just steps away from our first floor master).
As thrilled as I am that we are getting kitchen redone, walking through the kitchen makes me a little weepy. It's not sealed off yet, so it feels like a war zone. There is no light (since the beam-me-up light is gone), there are holes punched in various areas of the walls, the cupboard doors have all been taken off. Nothing is in it, except for our stove, Lizzie (which is staying).
Although we have lived in three apartments and two houses over the 12 years we have been together, I think this is our first home. This is the first residence we have had to work on. The house feels like us, and I feel like this level of deconstruction mirrors somehow something within myself. I feel like crying every time I walk by it.
Tomorrow, the kitchen will be sealed off and true demolition will begin. We are keeping our fingers crossed that this project will be done by Christmas.
