Ammi Midstokke: The romance of building a house

When you are building a house with your spouse, your love languages naturally shift to something a bit more pragmatic.

For example, smooth drywall patches seem to cause a flush of oxytocin the likes of which I’ve not experienced since childbirth. I am beginning to suspect Charlie is knocking holes in the wall intentionally.

Last weekend, in an obligatory act of proving that we’re both still alive and married to each other, we accepted an invite to dinner with a group of friends. We washed the sawdust out of our hair and the varnish from our skin and I wore something as decadent as a knit sweater.

Six months ago, the girl at the bakery said my “style” was cute – because the look of self-taught carpenter is apparently the new hipster – but now she’s realized the paint stains are real and the pastry habit is a coping mechanism. She checks in on my well-being and counts my fingers instead of assuming any layers of dusty wool or bandanas are part of my Instagram brand.

Charlie and I only accepted the dinner invitation because they said the doors opened at 5 and dinner would be served by 6:30. Also, someone else was cooking and potentially there would be cornbread involved. Being from Missouri, Charlie will sell his soul for a good chunk of cornbread.

Or in this case, shower and put on a clean shirt.

In the final stages of construction, to say we’re burning the candle at both ends is a gross understatement of the state of affairs in our home(s). Our teenagers have taken to raising themselves, using our bank cards to grocery shop for their staple nutrition of frozen pizza and macaroni and cheese.

The dog hair on the floor has been trampled on for long enough, it’s forming a sort of natural-fiber rug.

There are blueberries in the fridge so far gone, they are basically a biohazard. Since I bleed money at Home Depot every day and have guilt about waste, I pretend the berries are still a potential addition to a batch of homemade muffins.

The teenagers support our inordinate disengagement in home life by saying helpful things like, “Mom, those blueberries in the fridge are looking really old.” And, “My therapist says you thrive in high-stress states and so you are drawn to stressful environments.” At least someone is parenting the kids.

The problem with therapists is they only get the version of the story told to them. I am clearly not thriving in any environment right now, although I do seem to have developed a high tolerance for paint fumes.

Mere weeks away from hoping we pass inspections, midnight oil is being burned, the candle is just a puddle of hot wax, the extra mile has been gone, bulls have been taken by their horns, and we’re consuming B-vitamins like they’re Tic Tacs. And on at least one occasion, attending that dinner party with friends like it was date night with the promise of an 8 p.m. bedtime.

While rolling dice and losing $3 in a round of left-right-center (my brain only capable of games of chance at this point), I glanced over at my strapping husband in clean clothes. He always looks good, but he was looking particularly fine on this evening, having scrubbed the caulking and drywall dust out of his beard.

Awash with gratitude and feeling romantic about all his building prowess and drywall patching, I leaned toward him. In a voice reserved for the debauchery sanctioned by marriage, domestic unions or Swedish telephone operators, I whispered, “Let’s go home, take some magnesium, and fall asleep early.”

The look he gave me was the very same as the day I walked down the aisle.

Ammi Midstokke can be contacted at ammim@spokesman.com