Walking Through the Frame.

The house is looming big and large and being built before our eyes. The frame is up. A roof without shingles. The rooms are shaped and we can walk among them, planning and thinking about how we’ll call for each other from room to room. We can actually see where and what it will be. We drive by the house every Friday night while on our way to Mellow Mushroom for dinner. It is our Zen moment where we become overwhelmed with this great big progress that we seem to have almost nothing to do with. Sure, we drove through one other day this week when I saw a man stapling on the roof and I gave him an encouraging thumb’s up. He smiled and returned the gesture. We were thumb’s up soul mates at that point. I’m sure he’s now considering the larger aesthetic implications of his stapling. Good man. Good thumb. Pretty staple.

It’s amazing to walk through this physical structure and realize that this is ours (or, at least officially, it will be soon). We chatted one on top of the other, “look, here! Here is our double door!” Mr. Husband ran all around, inspecting the handy work and scratching his head about the master bedroom that could be larger for true comfort. Upon entering each room among the many wooden beams, we’d pronounce its name as if we hadn’t studied the floor plan for countless hours and already have every nook and cranny memorized. Perhaps we were doing a good deed and letting that particular space know about its future. No nervousness or anxiety for our rooms. We’ll provide you with a clear path for blooming into a “powder room” or a laundry room. (Every time I’ve said “half-bath” in front of the sales lady or design lady, I’ve been blatantly corrected with a “you mean the powder room.” Makes me want to stick out my pinkies and lower my gaze to let the Jones’s know that I will not play their room name game. Half bath! Half bath! Half bath! Our poor neighbors and my terrible uncouthness. We beg your forgiveness ahead of time.)

I am learning from my Mr. Husband that we can plan big. We can plan for a future as long as we adjust the present and live within our means. No more living for the moment (unless it’s that free love thing we do so well together). This means going a bit longer with a car whose windows do not work until I can save up the money above and beyond the house saving. This means deleting those wonderful J.Crew emails that announce an additional 20% off sale items and beg me to buy-buy-buy! This means that we’ll eat at home for most of the week, awarding ourselves with one night out at a reasonable restaurant. This means not accepting every social offer that comes our way. This means that we have to apologize a lot to friends and promise them that when our home is built—we will repay you in social kindness via home grown invitations. We’ll cook our butts off for you.

But until then, we have our walls coming together in the greatest creation we’ve yet witnessed. And we both want it all so badly—we want to fill it and build a home that we’re proud of and happy with. We want to walk among the walls and see beautiful things.

This Saturday, we went for lunch and then headed to a few furniture stores to drool over what we might have if we’re good and we plan and we save. Mr. Husband loves the table that I’ve picked out and agrees it will fit eight. Get ready Mom and Dad! Thanksgiving is mine! See you soon Lloyd and Rhonda! We will fit with elbowroom to spare! In addition to hunting for the perfect table to securely win the Thanksgiving day holiday (it’s a competition for certain), we found a few smaller occasional tables and a Beijing red china hutch and bookshelf that Mr. Husband couldn’t tear himself away from. There was another modern looking cabinet that can be turned into a glass and wine cabinet, but it was the Beijing cabinet that got both of us flustered. We imagined it on the far wall in the nook. We imagined it so hard we could see it. We were breathing on it in our place and passing the potatoes past it on Thanksgiving. It is perfect.

But we have to save for the closing costs! What if something happens like one of our legs falls off and we have to pay a super-secret-plastic-surgeon-slash-bone-surgeon oodles of money under the table to have him refasten the leg? At that point, our Thanksgiving table and Beijing hutch will seem foolish. We need a table to pass money under for our underground leg-reattaching surgery, but I don’t think we should risk that scenario not happening if we need it for this table. Not quite yet. I finally told Mr. Husband to “walk away—walk away, Champ.” We had to. Our heads were filled with more than sunshine and lollipops as we imagined the awesomeness eating area we could have. Think of our leg surgery. Walk away. Walk away.

He’s a good man who wants a nice home and understands the importance. He’s a good husband who is patient and enjoys dreaming of the one day. He’s a good man who puts the safety and comfort of our legs before a red china hutch.