Our house is falling apart. Really it is.
My little guy always gets worried when he hears me say this. "Mami, why is the house falling apart?" "Will it be okay?" "Will we be okay?" He is my sensitive one. My worrier.
So I try not to say it in front of him, but ever-so-often the words will slip out of my mouth.
The deck needs to be refinished.
Parts of the fence replaced.
The front porch striped and painted.
The siding replaced.
New windows for downstairs. They are painted shut! And most of the screens are torn or simply don't fit right anymore. (Boy was it hard after Irene swept through our town and we were left without power for almost a week. The only window we could open was the bathroom one. Frustrating and HOT. Fortunately we replaced the upstairs windows before the kids were born. At least there was some breeze coming in through there.)
The upstairs air conditioning replaced.
We often say that we will fix these things soon, but then other unexpected expenditures come along. I guess that is what happens when you live in an older home. The way life works. I am not complaining...well, maybe a little.
But you know what? I love our house even if it is slowly falling apart.
It is the longest place I've ever lived at.
The first house my hubby and I bought together.
The first and only home my nenes have ever known. Where they took their first steps and said their first words.
It is in this house I fell in love with gardening. Vegetables and all.
The first house I ever decorated to my liking from floor to ceiling. Colorful, very colorful.
This house has heard our tears and laughter, felt our pains and joys.
It has heard my dreams, our dreams, their dreams.
I love this house of ours. Even if it is slowly falling apart. I do.