Last night Matt and I had our annual discussion about Christmas: planning what we would like to do for others, discussing whether we’d like to get things for each other or do something joint with the house, and talking about the types of charitable organizations to which we’d like to give this year. There was much discussion about iPhones and pet projects. Things eventually took the turn that they always take — to focus on the much-detested wall between the dining area and the “bonus room” (the only bonuses to which appear to be bonus frustration, bonus irritation, and bonus claustrophobia).
Matt declared this to be the “squeaky-wheel-gets-the-grease project” for the next year.
Then we started talking about the actual cost output if we were to do the majority of the work ourselves (Ha! I just thought of an actual “bonus” to that room: I will be able to relieve a ton of stress while whacking at the thing with a sledgehammer as I’ve dreamed of doing since we moved in while I was pregnant with Liam!). It’s no minor miracle that the thing made it through my pregnancy with Liam but I don’t think that if we’re lucky enough to have another one, it will make it through a second time around. I mean, I have some self-control (you know, as long as it doesn’t involve chocolate…), but that’s unrealistic, don’t you think?
Then we shook on it. That’s as good as a signature in blood in this house. All I want for Christmas is to gain a pantry and lose a wall and Santa just told me that he’s putting a sledgehammer in my stocking. Yippee!