The floors we paid over $2000 to have refinished have had us a little stressed. Especially in the entry hall and the kitchen. They’re... spotty. Not shiny, or even sheeny, where water’s touched them repeatedly. If you spill grape juice or something greasy in the kitchen, it’s going to soak in and leave a spot that doesn’t completely come up.
As you know, this is not the way newly finished floors should be acting. We've been living with these for four months, eyeing the mess daily, mopping at it periodically, feeling a little sick.
The guy whose company refinished our floors is a local from Jasper—a real born-and-bred mountain guy. He’s over six foot four, booming, hyper, full of smiles. I instinctively trusted him on sight. His team worked hard, finished quickly, packed up and moved out like pros. He’s refinished floors in several historic hotels in the area—and at the home of the owners of Arkansas Products. I’m pretty sure he’s top notch.
But our sad floors—blotchy, stainy, ugly. Especially in front of the sink in the kitchen. We stressed and fretted. He promised to come back to take a look and fix problems, but seemed slow to get around to it. I stressed, first inwardly and then outwardly, about my conflict between my trust in this man’s integrity and reputation, and my husband’s (and my) unhappiness with our two-thousand-dollar floors.
I didn’t realize how much it was bothering me until tonight, when we finally touched base with him and got some additional clarification: The urethane he used was a bad batch. He’s had to redo fifteen houses in the past few months. He’ll be coming back, buffing every single board in every room we had refinished, and refinishing them. The splotches and stains and etc. will all go away.
When Husband came into the kitchen to tell me what he’d learned, I burst into tears and cried for a few minutes. Yes, I’m pregnant, and that’s part of the emotional outburst.
But it was so nice to know that this unpleasant waiting, this one of several in our life right now, is going to have a pleasant and just ending. No wrangling, no arguments with the workmen. They’re going to make it all better.
SUCH relief—even though it’s just old floors.
One small step forward...
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
After dinner tonight, while we parents were tidying up and the wee one was running about underfoot undermining our efforts with Tupperware distribution, I spotted her squatting with an earnest look in her face.
"Pot." she said seriously, looking straight at me. "Pot."
And for a second I didn't get it, but then I remembered her preference for shortening all words to one syllable whenever possible, and realized what that squat meant. "You want to use the potty?" I asked breathlessly.
Serious nod yes. (Such a serious little girl I have-- fun loving, and mischievous, but also grave and always observing, always trying to figure things out, to be Right about things.)
Immediate transfer to the bathroom, where a fairly wet diaper was hastily removed, and a little girl sat gravely on the toilet for a few moments. We were a bit too late, but she recognized what she was doing in her diaper, and asked for the potty. You bet I let that gal flush the toilet anyway and wash her hands afterwards (both of which she loves).
She's peed and pooped on the toilet for my mom, but never for me. I count the request, though, as considerable progress.
We're crossing our fingers and praying to NOT have two in diapers this November...
"Pot." she said seriously, looking straight at me. "Pot."
And for a second I didn't get it, but then I remembered her preference for shortening all words to one syllable whenever possible, and realized what that squat meant. "You want to use the potty?" I asked breathlessly.
Serious nod yes. (Such a serious little girl I have-- fun loving, and mischievous, but also grave and always observing, always trying to figure things out, to be Right about things.)
Immediate transfer to the bathroom, where a fairly wet diaper was hastily removed, and a little girl sat gravely on the toilet for a few moments. We were a bit too late, but she recognized what she was doing in her diaper, and asked for the potty. You bet I let that gal flush the toilet anyway and wash her hands afterwards (both of which she loves).
She's peed and pooped on the toilet for my mom, but never for me. I count the request, though, as considerable progress.
We're crossing our fingers and praying to NOT have two in diapers this November...
It does happen.
Another doctor's visit today. Weight gain slight (that's good), blood pressure good, baby heartbeat strong and audible. Eighteen weeks along tomorrow.
And I breezed through the appointment, chatty, few questions, and not a single worry in my head about whether all those routine diagnostics would turn out fine or not.
It wasn't until later this afternoon that I remembered that these things are miracles, that something like 25% of pregnancies end in miscarriage, and that not every birth turns out just fine. I've been struck repeatedly by that fact in the past couple of weeks because of those two women's stories-- one a new read, one a journal I've been reading for years and years. I find it very interesting that my empathetic soul, hurting along with these women, found it easy to not connect their agony to my own pregnancy. Is that a defense mechanism? Denial? Or perhaps a safe emotional distance?
Our first, our Bird, was just fine despite arriving a month early. The pregnancy was momentous to me but uneventful as far as pregnancies go. So far, this one has been uneventful as well-- I sometimes forget I'm pregnant, I feel so well these days.
Without becoming paranoid about the possibility of this changing at any moment, I want to remember and recognize what a tremendous (and tremulous) gift that is.
And I breezed through the appointment, chatty, few questions, and not a single worry in my head about whether all those routine diagnostics would turn out fine or not.
It wasn't until later this afternoon that I remembered that these things are miracles, that something like 25% of pregnancies end in miscarriage, and that not every birth turns out just fine. I've been struck repeatedly by that fact in the past couple of weeks because of those two women's stories-- one a new read, one a journal I've been reading for years and years. I find it very interesting that my empathetic soul, hurting along with these women, found it easy to not connect their agony to my own pregnancy. Is that a defense mechanism? Denial? Or perhaps a safe emotional distance?
Our first, our Bird, was just fine despite arriving a month early. The pregnancy was momentous to me but uneventful as far as pregnancies go. So far, this one has been uneventful as well-- I sometimes forget I'm pregnant, I feel so well these days.
Without becoming paranoid about the possibility of this changing at any moment, I want to remember and recognize what a tremendous (and tremulous) gift that is.
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