Nobody tells you how bad it feels when you start to break your brand new house.
The first scratch on the floor, the first scuff on the wall, the first marker down the hallway, the first red wine on the carpet.
Nobody tells you that it starts to happen the minute you move back in.
When our house was old and weird and full wacky walls with weird textures, I didn't care what happened to them - I knew they were coming down and changing. So I let life happen and I didn't scold or overreact or shout when a crayon "accidentally" drew on the cabinet door or a Matchbox car "crashed" into the baseboard. With 2 little boys and a husband, it was a blissful state to be in.
But that changed as soon as the walls were white and new and perfect.
Now I care, but I don't want to care. I don't want to cringe when hands smudged with Nutella prance along the hallway on their way to get washed. I don't want to tense when the remote control vehicle comes to a full stop because it hit the baseboard. I don't want to nag for the 100th time to let go of the cable railings. But I care because I know how much effort the choice, the purchase and the installation of each one of those things was. And I remember the price-tag. And I love the way it looks and I just want to enjoy the newness and the transformation for as long as I can.
But we are meant to live in houses, not observe them or watch them from a distance. And no one teaches me that more than the 3 men in my life who live in the house fully - with joy and laughter and smudged Nutella fingers.