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From the day I was brought into this world I was surrounded by a family of “I did it myself-ers”.
My father, is one of those handy men who can literally “do anything” and not only can he do everything, he can do it all incredibly well. He was a diesel mechanic in the military before becoming a regular mechanic, before becoming a self-employed contractor. The house I was brought up in for the majority of my childhood and adolescence was the second of houses designed and built by my dad. But, not only was the house designed and build by him, the electrical, the plumbing, the flooring, the cabinets and heck, today even the kitchen table is built by him!
My mother, on the other hand, was also one of those “I did it myself-ers”. But for her, it was on the (dare I say) more feminine side. The woman could sew and cook and clean and garden like nobody’s business. If you go through the house you will find the curtains were made by her, the plants were all grown by her, the cushions were made by her, and the decor was chosen by her. Amazing, really.
When we first moved in to “the new house”, I was six, and the house was a veritable work in progress. The floors were unfinished, the cupboards didn’t have doors, and while renovations were underway it was not at all strange for me to see my mom washing the dishes by hand in the bathtub. As a matter of fact, it was all perfectly natural and normal for me to see both my parents working away on the house when they weren’t “at work”, and I was always happily enlisted to help with whatever I could.
By the time I was a teenager, though, I started to wonder: “Why don’t you two just pay people to do all this extra work?” Like many teenagers, I pretty lazy and unmotivated... And I vowed that “when I got older I would not be like them!” I thought, I swore, I would never want to do all my own house work and all my own decorating, and all that extra stuff you could pay someone else to do – I would pay it!
And so, the years went on and I watched that house develop, ‘til it was complete... And now I’ve even seen it renovated through the years, (of course by my parents), and it’s more beautiful each time I visit. The tangible result of all the work and the workmanship put in by two people who truly loved this house, this home.
Well, it turns out that we truly are a product of our upbringing, and I am a true testament to that. It’s funny, but after all this time I find myself looking around my home... And my cushions? I made them myself. The photos on my walls? I took them myself, and framed them myself. My walls? Were all painted by me (and my husband). My home is cleaned by me, my meals are all cooked by me, and my garden is grown and tended by me... And you know what the weirdest part is?! I simply would never pay anyone to do it. I would never want to now...
And I finally get why.
I love the feeling of my hands in the dirt, in the paint, in the arts. I love the feeling of sculpting my own world. I love the way you need to “learn” before you can “do”. I love the pride in a job well done...
I love to look down at my palms and say, I did this all with my own two hands.
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