Monday, December 4, 2017

transracial adoption and jesus in the chick fil A...

If you've been following our journey on this blog (where I share much more of my heart than on social media), it's no surprise that our family has endured one of our toughest semesters yet on so many fronts.  (Read back a few posts ago and perhaps you'll get a sense for the amount of stress we've endured.)

Some things are improving, and some things remain very raw, sore, and difficult.  We are trying to find our way.

Life looks so different now than it used to.  Through these trials, I've found myself reflecting often upon transracial adoption (adopting outside of your race/across racial lines).  It's changed our life so radically over the past five years. 

When we adopted Jameson, (and that was a whirlwind of a story- whew!) we took the adoption experts' advice very seriously when it came to incorporating our son's culture into our family.

I know lots of white families that have adopted black and biracial children.  Some of them choose to ignore the topics of race and our racial history with their children (as is custom in white culture).  Someone I know even touted, "My friend's children don't even know they're black!" 

Sigh.

To be fair, every adoptive couple, just like every parent, has the right to decide how they'll parent their children on various topics throughout a child's life.  I'd even guess it's probably more common for white couples adopting transracially to simply include their child into their own life and culture with very little changes to expose their child to his/her own culture and identity.  (That's tough work.)

But here's the problem. 

All those cute little black babies raised by sweet white families in the past few decades are now ADULTS.  And they're talking.  They're sharing their experiences of being raised in white families, in white churches, in white neighborhoods.  Research shows they're struggling through their own identity issues as they're now living as black men and women in life, and they're often finding themselves ill-prepared to handle life as a person of color in society once they're out from underneath their parents' white umbrella.

It's Marc and I's mission to raise our children in such a way to honor their birthfamilies and to honor their heritage.  Since Jameson's adoption is across ethnic lines, it's an added challenge but we want to do everything we possibly can to learn about, celebrate, and incorporate the richness of his culture into our own family.

Even when it puts us in a strange wilderness like now.

Because we're not black.  We're not white.  We're a black AND white family.  Collectively.

And so that makes us constant pilgrims longing for a place and a people to which we belong.
We're in process from "old life" to "new life," where there is alot more color and diversity.  That may sound nice and exciting, but in reality, painful isn't a strong enough word to describe that transition for us. 

Don't get me wrong, I love wherever I'm headed, for I know it's God that is doing the leading, and He will surely guide us. 

But I'll be walking with a limp to get there.

Last week, I was standing in the airport Chick Fil A line with Caroline and Jameson before our flight home departed.  (Marc was on baggage duty back at the gate while we got food.)  Jameson was in my arms, and he was being a total sweetie.  Our faces were close to one another, and we were just engaging in a typical 5-year-old mom and son conversation.  When Jameson laid his head down on my shoulder because he'd been up since the crack of dawn traveling, my eyes met those of another man.

I'd seen this man back at the gate.  He was kindof an odd duck, almost like a black Indiana Jones.  The adventure hat, the vest, the chiseled facial features and muscular build.  Intimidating at first glance, but at the back of the Chick Fil A line, he was staring straight into my eyes in a way that was incredibly profound, full of compassion.

Was he trying to tell me something?  Or is this just my imagination? I'm trying to figure out.  I really wish I was more intuitive...

But he continued looking at Jameson and me, and he nodded his head slowly. 

I see you, Mom, his expression and nod told me. 

And then, he nodded at me AGAIN!  Slowly, intentionally, deliberately.  TWO NODS!  He was telling me something.   He was non-verbally affirming my motherhood to my chocolate-skinned son in such a tender way that I was incredibly humbled. 

I fought back tears and smiled knowingly back at him.  Thank you for seeing me, I wanted my face to say.  Thank you for affirming me in such a difficult season in life.

I turned around and we continued through the line.  As we ordered, the girls at the cash register were striking up conversation with Caroline, even to the point of name introductions.  And just as it was time to insert my credit card into the machine......almost out of nowhere the man walked up with his credit card in hand and told the cashier, "It's on me."

Y'all.  I just about burst out crying!  (It's a moment I've been WAITING to type about because it won't leave my thoughts and memory.)

I don't know who that man was, and I've even questioned if he was an angel?! 

Because to me, that moment was as if it was the Lord himself affirming me....

Amy, I see you.  You're doing this.  Though it's painful, and people will reject you and think you're crazy, you're on the right track.  You're giving everything you have to love your children and I'm proud of you.

It was like God was saying:

Not only am I going to affirm where you're headed, do not fear.  I'm even going to PROVIDE for you along the journey.  You won't go hungry.  Trust in me.  I'll feed you along the way, and I'll send the most unlikely people to do it.  

I know it's a little weird to compare this guy in the Chick Fil A line to Christ himself, but out of love, this guy rushed to the front of the busy line to pay my debt.

And in that moment, my faith was increased.





Sunday, October 29, 2017

maybe we need another reformation....

Today isn't your typical Sunday morning.

It's big. 

This Tuesday marks the 500th anniversary of the protestant Reformation when Martin Luther nailed the 95 Theses to the church door in Wittenburg, Germany.  Maybe that's not a big deal to you, but without it, our lives and arguably our entire society wouldn't be the same without it.

So that means churches everywhere across the globe (especially those in my reformed Presbyterian tradition) will be celebrating it together today.

(So, of course- Murphy's law-- my son comes down sick in the middle of the night, which means I can't go to church.  But while pouring him a warm bath, I got to thinking, and started jotting down a few thoughts.)

It's easy as a Protestant to look back on history and see who was on the right side of it, you know?

Yeah! The Reformation.
Yeah!  Martin Luther.

The church had become terribly corrupt and self-serving.  Its doctrine was out of line with the Scripture.   It oppressed people monetarily by demanding payment for the promise of eternal life.

That all sounds crazy to our modern ears, right?  Of COURSE things needed to change.

The church itself needed to be challenged, held accountable, and cleansed of its corruption at the time.

And thanks to the courage of our buddy Martin Luther to get it started, it eventually was.

But today I'm thinking more deeply about the terribly difficult road it took for Martin Luther and the Reformers.  Change didn't come overnight, and it didn't come without a great deal of suffering for all of those involved in the movement of resistance.  After demonstrating his own form of peaceful, nonviolent protest, Martin Luther's life was characterized by constant pressure to defend this movement called the Reformation politically and theologically against the dominant, all powerful Catholic church.

 I'm sure that was one stressed-out guy, y'all.

It's important to note that Luther's intentions were never to split from, but to "reform" what already existed if that was possible. He certainly wasn't playing by the rules, but he wasn't abandoning the system, either.

But like most any dominant institution or company, a few revolutionaries weren't going to change anything.  It wasn't until some of the cries of the Reformation like Sola Gratia, Sola Fide, Sola deo Gloria, Sola Christus, and Sola Scriptura (Latin phrases meaning Grace Alone, Faith Alone, For God's Glory Alone, Christ Alone, and Scripture Alone) took hold of people's hearts and began to spread uncontrollably like wildfire that it was clear there would be no stopping this thing.

I wonder what it must have been like for Luther to stand alone in protest against a centuries-old establishment that he himself loved and belonged within.  To brave the wilderness, as Brene Brown would say.  Luther was risking his very life when he stood alone.

As people slowly caught on to Luther's seemingly "revolutionary" ideas of getting back to the heart of the Christian faith, I wonder how increasingly threatened those in power must have felt.  He was excommunicated from the church, called before emperors and asked to recant his beliefs.  But thanks be to GOD Luther remained defiant for the good and godly beliefs in which he was fighting.

And we're all better for it today, amen?

But here's what I'm thinking.  Just as the church had become misguided and corrupt by its own desire for power back then, we see it happening in our country today.  Maybe it isn't the doctrines of salvation that are being twisted as much as they were in the 1500's, but perhaps affirming and applying the doctrines of God's IMAGE and God's KINGDOM are being missed and more importantly dis-missed by a majority culture within our evangelical institutions.

The story of the Bible itself is a Savior who came as a poor, homeless man in order to 1) reconcile sinners to Himself AND 2) to reconcile two groups that hated one another (Jews and Gentiles) into the SAME FAMILY of God.  Though the racial and economic tension and reconciliation in the Gospel story is radically applicable to us today, our homogeneous churches are the fruits of generations who have focused on the first half of the Gospel without regard for the latter.

Maybe we need another reformation?

Maybe it's already happening.  Maybe that's what all this cultural mess we're feeling these days is about.

I sense the Spirit is in the business of waking some of His people up.

Do you sense the small wildfire burning within the hearts of those who yearn for true biblical, Gospel-centered justice?   Could it be that what's instinctively being labeled as a "liberal, political agenda" is really an attempt to dismiss the flames of reformation that are beginning to sweep our nation?

Do you sense division, even within the church?  It's okay.  The Reformation shows us that division and peaceful protest can ultimately be for the good of God's kingdom.  

Is the church engaging in healthy discussions on matters of race, poverty, and culture?  Understanding the doctrines of God's image and His kingdom demand that we pay attention to what's happening around us.   Is the church listening to the voices of the modern day Martin Luthers, or is it seeking to silence and excommunicate them?

Is the American evangelical church acknowledging, confessing, and repenting of it's own history that kept people of color from entering its doors just a few decades ago, creating the safe haven of the American black church, and does it humbly welcome them in today?   Does the church recognize its compliance of anti-Gospel practices and the long-term, continued lingering effects of hundreds of years of enslavement within our country?

Do churches have a genuine desire to ensure the diversity of God's image isn't just within the congregation, but also in leadership roles as well?   Or similar to the 1500's, is the long-standing institution of the church feeling politically and economically threatened and reacting in fear, desperate to maintain power?

What if (bear with me) the cries of this reformation are the words "Black Lives Matter?"  I'm sure the 5 Solas made those in the catholic church shudder back then, too.

In 500 more years, what will history show us about the American church's love for the poor, the oppressed, the marginalized?

And whose side will you be on?

"God doesn't need your good works, but your neighbor does."  -Martin Luther


Friday, October 13, 2017

the slowness of recovery...

I just read over my last blog post.  Though there's likely a few more things accomplished on the River House, every word typed then still applies fully to this day.

It's hard, you guys.

Life isn't settling down into any sense of "normal" yet.  We wonder if and/or when it ever will. 

It's day to day.  We focus on what needs completing this day, and we're succeeding if we can do that.

There's layer upon layer to our current stage of suffering.  There's physical, material/financial, emotional, and relational suffering.  There are large looming questions of belonging and identity for us as a family.

Wounds are trying to scab and scar.  Many days, they still feel very fresh and raw.

And you know, it's all capsizing upon us as we're entering into what we're calling "new life."  Maybe we thought "new life" would be bliss.   

My therapist tells me this will get better.  But the chapter is so long, the path is so dark that it honestly feels like it might never change. 

(Sorry, this post does not contain much hope.  That's just where I am in the journey.)

I'm tired of reaching out, tired of asking for help.  This isn't resolving in 2 weeks.  There's no easy fix.  No one wants suffering, but we really don't want suffering (for ourselves or others) that lingers on and on.

I feel as though I can't even trust my brain right now.  One day I'm convinced of one thing, and the next, I'm convinced of the opposite.  My mom always told me we don't make big decisions when we're upset in the moment, so I'm learning to take one day at a time.  One step even. 

I don't have to have all things figured out.  I just have to focus on this day.

It's so timely that Brene Brown's new book is entitled, "Braving the Wilderness: the Quest for True Belonging."  I'm reading it (well, listening to Brene read it to me) as if it were written directly to me. Where do I truly belong?  With whom do I truly belong?   (I'm thinking more broad spectrum along the lines of identity, culture, race, faith, politics, etc.)

Just as this home renovation is taking FOREVER, so does healing and recovery from "old life" to "new life." 

I'm looking for people who can walk down this crazy, windy journey with me.  People who are truly "safe" and can be trusted to love the unlovely parts of me.  People who are committed to me and my recovery.  People who want to understand and ask good questions.  People who are okay if I'm in process.

If I question.  If I cry.  If I say stupid things.  If I'm just a hot mess. 

And who understand it takes a long, long time.

God is most definitely at work through this suffering, but the process is slow and so painful. 




Sunday, September 10, 2017

growth in neediness...

Hello?



Hello, anybody there?



Oh hi there.  It's me again.  Yes, I'm really back!

Well, sort of.

I mean, it's been crazy.  Like really, really crazy.

Moving is really hard.
Moving into an unfinished home is even harder.
Moving into an unfinished home at the most stressful time of your husband's year is even harder than that.

Y'all, we've almost been drowned by the storm surge of life these past 2 months.  And it just continues to rain.

I know the sun will shine again on the other side of this, but right now we are caught in the flood and desperately trying to hold onto any life preserver in sight.

So, we've officially moved to the River House.   Pictures will come later.  I've only grabbed myself a few minutes and a laptop to write.

(And did I mention it's been really hard?)

The four of us are still, 2 months later, camped out in the basement of the River House.  The kids share the only bedroom, and Marc and I have a mattress on the floor of the small living area.  We have a functioning bathroom down here, and the kids have sortof learned to take showers.  (though they are dying to take a bath again one day.  God bless our neighbor who invited the kids over to get a real bath.)

Upstairs, on the main level of the house, our kitchen is now almost complete.  We have a dining room table.  We have a lovely new sectional couch and area rug in the Great Room.  It's going to be amazing.

We also have piles of tools and obstructed walkways with construction material and moving boxes/furniture that can't yet be stored until there's a room with a finished floor.

Compared to last month, we're getting there!

But compared to normal life, we aren't.

The top floor of the house (our bedrooms and bathrooms) is still deemed uninhabitable.  Though we've hired a tiling guy and plumber up there this week, it's a disaster.  I originally thought it'd be Christmas before we'd be able to move to the top floor.  Now I'm hoping by Halloween my kids can have their rooms and a bathtub again.

Y'all, there is really something to this idea of having a "settled" place.  Generally knowing where your things are.

But these days, everything presents itself as a challenge.  It feels like a triumph to get dressed beyond jeans and a t-shirt (my daily wardrobe for these past 2 months).  It feels like a triumph to cook a meal (which to be honest, I haven't much).  It's a true accomplishment to get my kids out the door to school without forgetting anything.  (And also an accomplishment not to trip over construction stuff as you're trying to get out of the door.)

Day after day, the constant, chronic stress wears on you.  Emotionally, physically, spiritually.  We've both found ourselves under medical care and in counseling to make it through this flood we're under.

Though I don't want to, I'm learning how to reach out for help in various forms of support.  And then reach out again.  And in my own humility, reach out again.

I'm learning what it feels like to be needy.  Like really, ongoing needy, where your problems don't go away in a couple weeks.

I'm feeling more in common with my neighbors who are impoverished materially.  Though they are abundantly rich in community, and I have experienced my own deficit in relationships through this.

I'm learning how serious stress is.  Upon our bodies and our minds.  How important it is to manage and reduce it, if that's even possible.

I'm learning that money is important, but saving it isn't worth losing your sanity.  Cue the therapist bills, medical bills, and contractor bills.

I'm seeing how resilient kids are.  How they can roll and adapt to new situations with relative ease, as long as they're feeling nourished and nurtured.

I'm learning how I'm simultaneously tougher and weaker than I thought I was.

I'm seeing our own limitations.  And the beginnings of aging bodies that can't handle what they could in our 20's and 30's.

Moving here, stepping down from my job as worship director, sending Caroline to public school, were to be the beginning steps of "new life" for us.  (a separate post on Caroline's great start in her 1st public school experience to come...)

Transitioning into this "new life" has been somewhat tumultuous, but we have hope that brighter days are yet to come.



Sunday, July 16, 2017

the river house #15: it's moving time...

SO much has changed on the River House since I last updated!  And I really shouldn't be laying here blogging to you about it, but I've come down with a sinus infection from all of the dust this work has been kicking up, so I'm giving myself a few hours to slow down...

Where to begin.... well, we have walls now!  Drywall was a HUGE game changer.  I can't believe we sold our current house before we even had WALLS up in this home.  (Did I even mention we sold our house in 2 days with multiple offers?  Which is great and all, except when you are still renovating another house you're not ready to live in...) 

The timing has been nothing short of stressful, y'all.  Or maybe it's just EXCITING.  Adventurous, even!  Yes, adventurous.  We wouldn't life to be dull.

Somewhere in all of the chaos and stress, though, has been the rewarding feeling of seeing this project begin to take shape.  

Perhaps the MOST exciting day was the one when my kitchen cabinetry was delivered!  Months of planning, months of waiting, and they were finally here!!!

EXCEPT.

They were THE.WRONG.COLOR.

All of them.  Creamy, buttery yellow.  I ordered crisp white.

You know what that means.

Another MONTH of waiting.

And our move-in date was a month and a few days away.

Expectations had to be adjusted.  And re-adjusted.  Always re-adjusting.

Dirty job
The bright side of this project has been our students and friends who have helped us along the way.  We couldn't have gotten this far without 'em.

There is just something to someone literally entering into your MESS to help.

We'll be forever grateful.
Floor delivery!
The kids have done pretty well through the craziness of this summer.  I took it upon myself to sign them up for various camps and VBS weeks, so they're having a blast while we're able to get some work done.  They've got sweet friends next door at the River House, so they haven't missed a beat getting to play with them outside.  



The goal by our closing date (next week!) was to have the 1st floor finished and then be able to work on the top floor.  

Well, that's not going to happen. (readjusting those expectations)

So NOW the goal has been revised to get what needs doing in order to to hopefully earn a CO (Certificate of Occupancy), and then work as we can when we can.  A CO would give us permission to live on the 1st floor, not just store our stuff there.

So we need running water.  And before you can get running water, you've got to tile your bathroom floor... 



bathroom vanity I found on craigslist

I had our carpenters put up the original 1901 trim around the bathroom window.  And when there's a coat of white paint on there, it's really gonna shine.

Remember that sinus infection I told you about?  Hmm, could it be from being in this house?  We literally had to change the air filter every couple of DAYS at one point.

I really think hell is going to be filled with lots and lots of SANDING.  Sanding little crevices like stair rails for hours and hours on end, covering yourself in black dust.  (It'll all be worth it, right?  Can't wait to see this finished in all its glory.)

I found a "new" old front door at an architectural salvage shop in Richmond that was similar enough to the original door of the house.  I had a contractor put some additional trim on it in order to match it even closer.

Then I painted it a slate blue color for now.  It'll change once we paint the rest of the exterior... maybe next summer?


 But for now, I'm liking my blue door.
 And no post about the River House is complete without a picture of my 2nd home for the summer: Lowe's.

Or as we call it, Slowe's.
So one month later, we had the flooring AND the cabinets stacked to the ceiling of the Great Room.  
And last week was when it became an HGTV show-- contractors swarming the house.... the trim guys, the cabinet hanging guy, the floor guy, the electrician, and the plumber (Marc), all working like crazy. 

And I'm running to Slowe's constantly for all of them.  Ugh.  I guess this adds "general contractor" to my resume?

Here's a quick glimpse of the front room of the house, which will be Marc's office and the most historical of the renovation.  We restored the original brick fireplace, used the original trim, we'll be refinishing the floors, etc.

So when I found this super huge and fun historic chandelier on craigslist, I thought it would make a statement and still stay in the right period.
Here's another glimpse at a beauty I found for the front entryway...  oh how I love light fixtures...
The floor guys, the trim guys, and the cabinet-hanging guys were literally dancing around one another last week.  And since the first cabinet catastrophe put me so far behind, my installer was kind enough to set my base cabinets FIRST in order for the countertop folks to come and get their templates made as quickly as possible.  

So that brings us to this past week!  A CO (Certificate of Occupancy) requires handrails around stairways: 


new handrails

industrial pipe handrail
One of my Pinterest-inspired projects was an iron pipe handrail going down to the basement.  On the river out my back window is a historic factory that makes industrial black pipe, so I thought it would be a fun and fitting tribute to make a pipe handrail.    (Not as easy as it looks... first I stumped my husband, myself, then I stumped the contractors, and after 4 trips to Slowe's, we finally got it and all my contractors were so impressed with it.)


So here's where things stand now with the floors in!   I only had to return 4. MORE. CABINETS.

Because the designer didn't account for my window trim (grrrrrr... these people... ).

At this point, though, my expectations are so readjusted that almost nothing will bother me.

I'm reeeaally excited about the special custom kitchen hood I'm designing.... can't wait to show you what I'm doing!

We've got weeks and weeks of caulking and painting ahead of us.  But I'm not going to think about it.

This project is making me go gray!!!  Haha, that's just paint.  But seriously, though.  It's been entirely too stressful.  I wasn't sleeping more than 5 hours a night, so I found myself crying in my doctor's office last week.  Sometimes meds are a wonderful gift from Jesus.

So what's crazy is that as of 3 days ago, we're now LIVING in the basement!!!  Closing on our other house isn't until next week (the 28th), but Marc will be out of town that week, so we wanted to get settled and into a routine before he left.  

So it's this week that we need to pack our ENTIRE HOUSE because we're moving all of our stuff next Saturday!  (Is this as stressful to read as I'm feeling typing it?)


Our little abode in the basement
So this was our first night camping set up!  We brought over the essentials.  The kids are sleeping on beds and Marc and I tried the pull out couch one night.....

....theeeeen we moved our bed over the next day... ha ha  

There are advantages of moving one block away... easy to run back for things you forgot to bring over.



This is my kitchen for the next length of time, you guys.  I am missing that dishwasher... 

But believe it or not, I think we're doing better being over here.  We're all sleeping well, and though it's small, at least it's organized.  I have to tell myself it's not for forever.  I can do this.  

The semester is quickly approaching and Marc will be getting back to RUF full time.  We had hoped we'd be much farther along, and we really could use an army right about now.  We'd covet your prayers (and help) this week as we try to wrap things up at the other house and get everything moved over here. 

To be continued....

Monday, May 29, 2017

white mama at the black barbershop: more than hair...



Okay, I'm super embarrassed to show y'all this first picture of my son's hair.

Life has obviously been a little crazy between selling our house and working on the River House, (more on that in a future post!) so as you can see, Jameson's hair has not been our first priority.

I was almost too mortified to take him in ANYwhere, and I really shouldn't have taken him in without washing his hair at home first to help loosen his incredibly tight curls for picking out.

So the barber,
loving his first shampoo at the barber shop
whom we love and have seen before, started working through Jameson's hair with the pick, and I could see Jameson doing everything in his power to hold back the tears.  (As I internally beat myself up...)

At that point, the barber took him for his first shampoo.  (I guess he realized it was a lost cause to get that pick through the boy's head.  Smart man.)
After the shampoo came the buzzers.  (or are they called the clippers? I don't even know...)  And at the back of Jameson's head are the tightest little curls that whatever-it's-called yanks and pulls when the hair gets long.

Jameson couldn't hold it in anymore.  He bowed his head and let the tears flow.  My poor guy.

The barber ran to the back room and rushed back with a chocolate bar for both of my kids.  #barberforthewin

Tear-stained Jameson devoured the bar, and the barber and I continued chit-chatting.  Occasionally he would direct a boisterous question to Jameson, and Jameson (being a shy version of himself) would usually just answer with a soft, enunciated "yes."

Then the barber turned to me each time and imitated Jameson's little voice saying "yes" and laughed to himself.  He said he couldn't believe how "polite" Jameson spoke.

I laughed.  Jameson didn't exactly know how to get his barbershop talk on.

And then that big ol' wave of white-mama-of-a-black-son insecurity hit me, for more than just hair.

My son is going to be teased for how he speaks.  He'll likely be teased for a myriad of things just because he lives with a white family.  He'll have to suffer the consequences for his deficiencies in black culture because of me.

I left that barbershop painfully aware of my whiteness, and of my son's lack of blackness, if that makes any sense.  

I can give my son so much-- food, clothing, a loving home, a family that's crazy about him, lightsabers galore, and even a good haircut-- but there's a big piece missing in every adoptee's life.  
(Especially in a transracial adoptee.)

I can't give Jameson the connection to his birth family.  And I can't give him his racial and ethnic heritage.  

That may not sound like a big deal to some, but Jameson comes from a very strong and beautiful cultural heritage.  Marc and I are always seeking for ways to bring more of it into our life, both for our sake and for his.

Since we have serious cultural limitations, we are praying that some of our dark-skinned brothers might take him under their wing.  I am praying for more racial representation for him in the church.   I want him to have real-life role models that can talk to him about what it means to be black in America.  That may not be something that he feels he needs now, but it's something he'll know he missed out on later. 

You guys, transracial adoption is about SO much more than learning to do hair.  

It's committing to a journey that will literally lead you places you never knew you'd go.  

It's coming to grips with your own insecurities and incapabilities and mourning losses your child doesn't even yet know he's facing.  

It's being willing to give up your comfort and even your people for the benefit of your child.  

It's a path that isn't for everyone.  

It's the most challenging (and simultaneously the most rewarding) thing I've ever done.  And I'm only 4 years in. 

May God give this little white mama the grace to know how to do it well.





Saturday, April 29, 2017

the river house #14: selling, staging and sexism...

We are up to our necks in houses, houses, HOUSES!  

Y'all, it's crazy.  It's the hot time of the market, so we need to get our current house up for sale.  

But the only problem is, what if it sells?!

Because if it does, then this is what I currently have.  

(and if you can't tell, that's not exactly live-able)

We are STILL insulating and fixing all the other thousand little things that need doing in order to get drywall.  

BEFORE: replacing the rotted wood on the back porch
AFTER: the porch is painted and the yard is landscaped
But first, in order to get listed on the market, we've had to switch our energies into our current house.

 I planted flowers for that extra pop of curb appeal.
Speaking of curb appeal, each year the city's Easter festival is in our neighborhood, and literally thousands of cars drive by our house that day, so it was important for us to be looking spiffy as we announced our house was coming for sale soon!

So in a typical day, I literally go from exterior work...

 ...to interior decluttering...


















...to hanging insulation at the River house...

It's too much, you guys.

Moving is hard enough.

But renovating one house while staging and selling (and ultimately packing up) another is too much.

And to make matters worse, we fired our contractor.

(What?!?  I know.)

Yeah, we're now on our own with no help.  Just when we probably need it the most.

I could literally write an entire blog post about the interchange the morning I fired him.  It was so, so bad.  It was just me and him, but thankfully our intern, Audrey, heard part of it word-for-word and was there for me after it was all said and done.

What started as me calmly expressing some concerns about the hours that he was reporting quickly (so QUICKLY!) escalated into him using loud, threatening language.  I was caught in a situation where I was trying to keep things professional, and it was like I was talking again to my explosive young children who often don't have the capability to use calm words.  Except this was an adult.

When his buddies drove up on the street, he stormed out to talk to them, which provided me the opportunity to attempt to stop physically shaking.  But when I heard his inappropriate comments to his buddies about us, and then about ME BEING A WOMAN, that crossed a line.

So when he walked back in to speak to me again, I calmly confronted his choice of words about me as a woman.  And his sexist response only dug his grave deeper. ("Oh," he said as he cocked his head to the side and wriggled his fingers in my face, "that's because you women have FEELINGS.")  I was still trying to logically figure out some of his pricing discrepancies in order to resolve the situation, but it was like an animal who had been backed into a corner.  He was flipping out, threatening to quit, attacking me.  It was time for him to pack up.

What in the world, y'all?  How does he think he can treat someone that way?  Um, no.

So it's a new day.

We'll figure it out.

It's nice that my house is pretty stinkin' clean as we go on the market Monday.

But keeping it that way with my two children is going to drive us ALL crazy.

To be continued...