As an army wife, I have lived in 10 different homes in the past 5.5 years. It may seem that with such a nice full number like 10, that I'm rounding up, but I'm not. The place I currently reside in Texas is the 10th home in my married life. And it’s the very first one that we bought.
I'm delighted. With Army life being so unpredictable and unstable, we weren't sure if we would ever buy a home or if it would be financially wise to do so. But having watched the first season of Fixer Upper, and my natural need to be productive and ambitious, I wanted to buy a home to do a few minor changes in.
For the first time in six years, I feel like I'm home. I'm sure it’s a culmination of having my husband live with me, having a great group of friends, awesome neighbors, and a home that is my home. Owning is different than renting. For me, largely because it gives me authority to paint the wall if I want to. And rent money so often felt thrown away.
The first project I did was repaint the kitchen cabinets. They look pretty dang great.
Then I decided to tackle the tile. I wouldn’t have replaced it, since it didn’t look bad with the new cabinet color, but I needed to do something with it because five different tiles were popping up. Every time I swept my kitchen, I swept up new grout. And since we were replacing the flooring (carpet) in the dining room, (with vinyl planks), I figured why not just dig out the old tile.
Just dig out tile.
It's it adorable how niave I can be in my ambitions.
I went over to my neighbor's house and borrowed her crowbar and sledgehammer and sent my kids upstairs so I could give this tile removal a go.
The first tile, a loose one, I pried up with a butter knife and my bare hands. The second one, also loose, came up in a similar fashion. Then I decided I should try to use the sledge hammer. And hey, since I have "Candid" in the title of this blog I'll confess, I like to hit stuff.
Should be evident by me having loved training MMA last year.
I raised the hammer, let it fall, and shards of porcelain flew everywhere. I looked at my hands. I had two small lacerations in my fingers and a deeper one in my knuckle.
Then I looked down to my leg. For a brief moment, it wasn’t bleeding at all, but the gash, oh dear the gash was deep. Not long, and I couldn't see any shrapnel in the wound.
"Why am I dumb?" I said aloud as a set the hammer down and ran upstairs. Halfway up the stairs the blood had soaked into my sock. I pulled down the first aid kit and first went for a band-aid. Two seconds later it was soaked through and still leaking down my leg like a leaky faucet at an old gas station.
I pulled down the plastic bins I had full of medicine and some gauze. I placed a big piece of it over the cut and decided to call my friend.
"Hey, is it your husband who likes to do stitches?" I asked with a bit of a chuckle.
"Yeah, are you kids okay?"
"Yep, just me. Got a big cut in my leg. Think he can come over?"
"He is on his way home from work right now. I'll send him over."
So with the thought of my friend who is an army dentist en route to see if I needed stitches, I hobbled back down the stairs to put some ice on my leg.
Ten minutes later he showed up with two of his kids to keep mine occupied upstairs. At first glance he said he thought it would heal up okay. We decided he should flush it out to make sure no tile pieces were stuck inside. I climbed onto my kitchen counter and held my leg over the sink. When he started flushing it, that's really when it started hurting. Immediately he said, "Actually it's pretty deep. Let's put a couple stitches in it to keep it from getting infected and to stop the bleeding."
He numbed up my leg with a local anesthetic and I watched as he looped the c-shaped hook through my leg. I held the needle while he tied it shut. Meanwhile my neighbor came over to help, feeling guilty for letting me use her tools.
Two stitches later I was all cleaned up, and the world started to fade real fast. "I'm gonna pass out!" I exclaimed before teetering off the ledge of the counter. My friends caught me, set me on the tile, and gave me an icepack to hug and some water.
Not my favorite part of the story, since I had been so hardcore the first half, but I can't leave out details like almost smashing my face open on the tile I wanted to remove.
Few minutes later I moved over to the couch and gave everyone the green light to go. I called my kids down and we watched a movie together.
You'd think that would be the end of the story.
Oh, it's not.
You see, while I was getting stitched up by a dentist on my kitchen counter, my three-year-old found the exlax chocolate in the first aid kit and downed.
The whole package.
Which I discovered a few hours later when she cried, "Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh, poop is coming forever!"
To spare you the details, let it suffice to say that poop is coming forever. Everywhere.
Fear not, I called poison control and they said to watch her and keep her hydrated.
Now, 48 hours later, the pooping is done, my leg feels not great but not awful, and I have two men downstairs right now removing my tile for me.
I asked my husband if it was okay for me to hire some guys to do it. He said, "It's cheaper than ER visits."
Note: Moderately graphic pictures below.