gonna move into the country, gonna get hit in the face with a trashcan.

It is possible that my house is trying to kill me. A couple of days ago, I wrote about falling down while holding Claire. I ended up with some bruised ribs, a swollen ankle and a nice gash on my leg. The next day, while taking out the trash, I managed to injure myself on the recycling box lid. I'm really not sure how this happened, I'm a seasoned recycler, but apparently recycling is different here outside the city limits. I spent that afternoon with an icepack on my puffy lip and my ankle wrapped in an ace bandage.

Maybe the house heard me complaining about its lack of charm. It might not have appreciated the alarmingly toxic primer we doused several rooms with during Operation Defunk. Maybe it enjoyed the animal stained carpeting that Nate removed and replaced with lovely laminate flooring. The house could be angry that we are not smokers, as it seems that every other person who has lived here enjoyed the nicotine. (When I picked up the mail our first day here, there was a care package for the former tenants from the Pal Mal company). Maybe the house is jonesing for some second-hand smoke.

Whatever the case, House, we are here. I'm sorry I said those things about your lack of charm. You are looking lovely. Big and spacious and lovely. You smell so fresh! Your dishwasher rocks my world. It is awesome that I can put Claire down for a nap and not have to tiptoe around. I'm looking forward to planting a garden. Please be nice to me.
Here are a few shots of the newly beautified livingroom. I wish I could find some befores, but all you need to know is that this is a VAST improvement in every way. I'll put some shots of other rooms later. You should also know that this photoshoot was taken at 11:30 PM, the only time that there is this kind of shocking lack of toys and books and Claire gear. These photos would in no way make it into this pool.

I'm also including a shot of the girl eating the small side table, because well, that's the kind of mother I've become. The kind who first takes a picture of the child eating a table and then stops the child from eating the table.