When we decided to gut our house, we put a lot of thought into the materials we would use to re-build it in terms of both textiles, flooring, and furniture. Because, you know, we have two boys and sofas get peed on and stairwells get grimy from tiny little hands that have been sweeping through the dirt like a broom sweeping the floor.

And, in the end (though it’s hardly the end, it’s actually the beginning) it didn’t matter anyway. Shit’s already damaged.

We opted for a leather sofa and we spent a pretty penny to get the one we had our eye on. We justified it because it’s leather and therefore indestructible. Only, that’s not true. Soon after it’s placement in the family room, it was covered with dump trucks, monster trucks, tractors, race cars and those little wheels on those little plastic toys started leaving tracks. Our sofa started to look like a heroin addicts arm. I cleaned it off, made a no-toys-on-the-sofa rule that has miraculously been followed, and called it a day. Until the day, that is, Van found a pen and put his good ol’ John Hancock on one of the cushions. I swear fire came out of my ears from overheating internally.

We found the perfect coffee table at the Rose Bowl flea market and purchased it from the guy who made it. We had a glass top coffee table before and swore we’d never get glass again because, um, hello dirty kid hands all over it. Somewhere between transferring the new wooden coffee table from the market to the house, a divot was made on the wood. And then we had something resting on it and I noticed several other small scratches on the wood. Then I took my finger nail and realized that my own nail could scratch the wood. Thanks a lot Mister-I-make-my-own-furniture man.

Our toilet is clogged. As I type this the plunger is sticking halfway out of the bowl, a memento of our tireless efforts to unclog it to no avail. Starting to wonder if the kids threw something down there.

There’s a roly poly in a cup by our sink that Hooper insists on keeping there. I have intentions to free it while he’s napping but I’ve forgotten for two days in a row. I’m not sure how it’s managed to survive.

Sand has taken over my life. There is sand stuck to the bottom of the bath tub. There is sand that falls out of my beach basket like a shaker of salt every time I pick it up. There is sand stuck on Van’s scalp despite washing and scrubbing. There is sand in their shoes and therefore every time it’s time to put shoes on there is a tantrum because they don’t like sand in there shoes. I won’t even bring up the sand in the car. What I will say is that if I die tomorrow, I might as well come back as a crab.

Putting the boys in the same room is a decision we’re happy with. Insert asterisk here because there’s an exception: nap time. Naps with two boys in the same room does not happen. So we set up the pack-n-play in the only available space: the bathroom. It’s a tight squeeze when you have to pee and given the fact the other toilet is clogged…

We met another furniture maker at the Long Beach Antique Market and had him make us a kitchen table. It arrived an awkward 4 inches higher than a standard table so – given the fact we have yet to buy dining room chairs – Hooper sits on an antique chair meant for decoration on top of his little toy suitcase (also known as his “tool box” from time-to-time), I sit in a rocking chair, Van is awkwardly low in his highchair, and Willy awkwardly high on a bar stool. He’s remaking us a suitable table.

And though I suppose it’s all a nuisance in some sense of the word, I also suppose that that is how a house becomes a home.