I returned home Saturday after being in five cities in seven days.  This is the sort of thing that I do to myself.  As I was making these plans – a two day driving trip to Bentonville to see the Stuart Davis exhibit (for the love of Pete – go! it’s fantastic) then to Tulsa, my hometown (to prove to someone that while the surface is a nice veneer, the construction is undoubtably builder’s grade) followed by a four day college tour in the Pacific Northwest with my middle – it occurred to me that this was insanity.  Then I said, “Oh, heavens, it will be fine.”

It was both fine and complete insanity at the same time.  By which I mean, the company was beyond reproach and each city was a delight, but it was a helluva lot of moving around.

I returned home to more of the same.  I know this will amuse some of you, but I forgot that a renovation takes a fair amount of energy.  I’ve wanted to do these projects since I bought the house.  I’ve planned for them.  I’m excited about them.

But I forgot the number of decisions, the “oh, we found something today and…” and the mess.  I did not forget the physical mess, but the mess in messing with old houses.  The contractor and the plumber are concerned about – I don’t know – pipes or something.

The upside of this concern and the ensuing destruction is that the second floor bath, which was one of my first priorities, but firmly on my contractor’s “Let’s do the third floor and see if we still like each other” list has now become part of Phase I. Which, while there is mess, means more tile, more plumbing, more fixtures.  More fun.

I could see the room in my attic on the third floor the first time I saw the house.  When I brought my oldest son to see the house for the first time I said, “I think there could be a bedroom up here.” He said, “Dibs.”

I can hardly believe it, but that was nearly four years ago.  Construction starts Monday.  It’s probably good that I wasn’t able to start right away.  We have a much clearer understanding of how we live here and what we need.

My office will be in the front part of the house with the north facing window.  Because of a large tree that shades the back, it is the sunniest part of the room.  The back room will be a bedroom for my oldest son when he’s home and anyone else who may need a place to crash.  As with any 104 year old house, existing closet space is limited.  The storage under the eaves will provide space for Christmas decorations, off-season clothes and the bins of nursery bedding with which I cannot seem to part.

I hate to make generalizations, but I have an affinity for bartenders and contractors.  As my contractor and I have discussed specifics, I’ve started to talk about the second floor bath, my closet and, oh yes, the kitchen. When the project creep sets in he says, “Let’s just focus on the third floor.  If we still like each other after that, we can talk about the rest.”  Wise man.

I’m going to check in here once a week, but will have regular posts on Instagram if you’d like to follow along.

One of the projects on my list for the house is a mild-modify of the kitchen. In the interim, I had an outlet installed in the pantry so that I could move my appliances off the counter. In order to do this, I had to do a little tidying.

I’m horribly messy, which no one believes because all my mess, domestic and emotional, happens behind closed doors. Jumbles of bowls, piles of knives, tipped over water bottles. Consistently, the more space there is in a hidden nook, the more mess.  This was the case the with the pantry.

In order to move the appliances I had to remove a shelf, which demanded some shifting. Few tasks have provided as much insight into my psyche. There was a box of crackers that had been down to the last four for months, but there they were still nestled tightly in the waxed sleeve. A shelf down and to the right, laying on its side was a box of the “wrong” Goldfish (whole wheat, good heavens) that has been there, opened, since last summer. And on the bottom shelf lived a pile of small cans of wet dog food samples that were a promotion in Rosie and Dexter’s dry food for well over a year.

These tins, smaller than any can of tuna, would not provide my Boxers a nibble. Rosie is sweet and feminine, but even she would be insulted by this amuse bouche. But each week as I opened a 20 lb. bag of kibble, I would carefully place another tiny tin on the bottom shelf of the pantry.

There is a spring of anxiety that goes along with starting these house projects  – the third floor, the kitchen, the baths – that comes from a deep and hidden well. After her divorce, through both her actions and her words, my mother began tattooing a phrase on my brain. “There’s not enough.”

How can I throw away three crackers, when I may need them later? How can I donate the simple, short-sleeved sheath that has never fit quite right when there may be a day that I will need it and have nothing? How can I discard these tiny cans of dog food when they may someday be all I have to offer my forty pound beasts?

But I am beginning to remind myself that not only does this mantra of lack not serve me, but it is not true. I have always had enough and in most cases much more than enough. So with some guilt I threw away the crackers and bagged up the dog food for the next person I saw standing on a street corner with a sign and a pup and moved on.

The toaster oven and the coffee maker agree that the pantry is cozy, and the countertops are blissfully clean.