Our Renovation Story

Okay, peeps.

I think the time has finally come for me to share Our Renovation Story in its entirety—to the best of my ability.

So many times in posts, I’ve alluded to a much larger tale, but I’ve never taken the time to compose it all—for many reasons, both logistical and emotional.

But.

Spring is coming to a warp-speed end, school will be out in a matter of weeks, family is starting to come to town to visit, and it just feels like time to open up this chapter of my life and release its hold on the past six months of my life.

So...buckle up and settle in, ‘cause it’s going to be a long and bumpy ride.

My heavens, where to begin...

I suppose I’ll begin with a little ray of hope that this story will not end in despair and destruction—despite the vast amount of time it spends there—but rather, with a house that is finally starting to feel a little bit like a home:

The Beginning

As most of you who follow this here blog already know, the process of evaluating the hubby’s new job opportunity and making the decision to move was very hard.

Harder still, was the process of finding a home in San Antonio that felt like it could be ours, in any way, shape or form.

We looked everywhere, and at everything, over the course of several real estate scouting visits (one that infamously involved a family case of strep throat, vomiting in landscaping during a showing, and a trip to urgent care).

And in the end, the one property that we connected with—the area, the school district, the neighborhood, the lot, and the interior vibe/layout—involved a large renovation to make it the most functional and aesthetically happy environment it could possibly be for our family of five.

The hubby, in all his resourceful glory, managed to find a contractor while we were in SA for one of our scouting visits, so that we could gauge the financial and timing depth and breadth of such a large renovation before we made an offer. And it yielded estimates pretty much in line with our expectations.

So we went for it.

The Early Days

If you can believe it (and perhaps, in retrospect, you shouldn’t), the contractor we consulted with during that scouting visit is the one that we hired.

He provided a lengthy list of references that we contacted, he understood our vision and established detailed paperwork to track all the minutia of such a large project, and he even provided daily documentation (e-mailed summaries and photos) of progress in the first week or two of demolition, when the hubby was not yet on site in SA to be our eyes and ears.

All was going well—if slowly, and with a small crew—and the hubby and I were doing everything in our power to stay on top of the daily renovation demands, finalize design selections and purchases, and simultaneously market and sell our McKinney home. While living in two separate cities. 

Oh—and we have three young children. Have I mentioned that???

Needless to say, it was a lot. 

A lot, a lot.

With an emotional lot thrown in, because the process of selling our McKinney home was less than pleasant, with buyers who ultimately made a very difficult time so much harder.

But we trucked along, one day and one challenge at a time, connecting as much as we could on the weekends, and reinforcing our battle armor for week after grueling week of to-dos and logistics and baggage—both literal and figurative. We were gearing up for a major move, after all.

The Rock Bottom

After nearly two months of intense stress and mental gymnastics to wrap our heads around a major move, a major renovation, and a major life upheaval from a city we’d lived in and loved for 15 years, the big Moving Day was fast approaching. 

And renovation progress was continually stalling.

Now, it’s not at all unusual to multiply both scope and schedule on a project of this magnitude (I mean, hello, we all watch HGTV), but the lack of progress within the house, combined with the lack of days before the move, led to some major concerns and anxiety.

Several major talks with our contractor—who was always very responsive and level-headed, if seemingly a little over-extended at that point—always calmed us down. But simultaneously reminded us of the giant undertaking that wasn’t even halfway to the finish line.

But we made collective plans to prioritize certain areas of the home to make it as livable as possible. And with just two weeks left until Moving Day, our contractor committed to building up the crew so that we could churn and burn faster, and on multiple fronts.

We provided our next payment in a series of installments that are pretty standard for this sort of overhaul.

And within days, our contractor was gone.

With our money in tow.

And our house nearly uninhabitable.

The Immediate Aftermath

I’ll never forget the day it all came crashing down.

It had been three days of radio silence from our contractor, and that was highly unusual, considering we connected daily, and were at the great ramp-up to the completion point.

The hubby was in LA for his first quarterly board meeting with his new company, and I was in my car outside of Chica’s school, moments from pickup.

He called with news. I asked if it was good or bad. He said let’s just talk later. I demanded he give me a scale of 1 to 10. He was silent. And my stomach dropped.

My dear mom friend, who was in the car for a quick chat, took one look at me and stepped out to go grab Chica on my behalf, and by the time she was back to the car, I was sobbing.

I know it wasn’t easy for the hubby to deliver such horrific news from afar, at a time when we were already stressed to the max and the sale of our McKinney home was at its most contentious peak. But he’d also gone above and beyond in trying to shield me from the worst of it, because he’d known the truth of the situation for 24 hours, and held back from sharing until he had more details to deliver.

The contractor was gone. His crew was left with no explanation and no hint of his whereabouts. The hubby had spoken to each and every individual connected with the job personally, and gathered all the bread crumbs possible, with none of it leading to positive outcomes.

Further still, he’d begun the process of a fraudulent claim through our bank, in an attempt to trace back our funds that had been submitted to the contractor via wire transfer (it yielded no such luck; the money was completely withdrawn), and had lined up other contractor estimates to get the work going again, with someone reputable, who owned a brick and mortar store, who we could hold accountable to the highest degree possible, for a service such as this.

It was beyond painful.

And a lot to take in.

Honestly, that evening—after Chica’s Open House at school, that I had to power my way through with my chin up—I broke down so completely that it ranks as one of the worst and most emotionally draining days of my life.

By morning, I’d called in reinforcements (hello, Nanna) to help with the packing and loading of our McKinney house, that was set to begin within 48 hours. And as hard as it all was, the hubby and I just went into a whole new mode of task-mastering, and truly divided up the worst of the worst.

He had to stay in SA to deal with the aftermath and the picking up of the pieces, in order to line up a new contractor. And I had to deal with the close-out of Dallas. Wrapping up school, moving our belongings, herding three children who contracted strep throat (the day before the move) to the doctor, and retreating to Tulsa for a week (hello, Grandma and Grandpa) to bide our time until a firm plan could re-emerge and we could map out our official path forward. 

Those days will always be such a blur of over-extended, anxiety-ridden hours. Literally, just plugging on, one step and task at a time, until exhaustion set in and the day had to end for a few hours.

But plug on, we did.

And after getting the kiddos settled with grandparents in Tulsa, I flew down to SA for a quick weekend with the hubby to assess the damage, wrap our heads around the situation we were in, and armor up for the next wave with a new crew.

Mass Chaos

Though I’d seen pictures, experienced FaceTime tours, and spoken with the hubby extensively about the status of the house, nothing could have prepared me for stepping through that door.

It took a solid few hours to just walk around and absorb the state of disrepair—and, honestly, to mourn our circumstances and the pain of the process.

It was overwhelming in every sense of the word.

And further compounding this heinous situation: the buyers of our McKinney home took possession of our old home, and just slayed us with petty, inconsequential nitpicks. 

I mean, while they were kicking up a giant fuss about this “unacceptable” damage to one wall during our move out...

...we were in SA, facing down a house full of destruction—like a leak from a newly-installed upstairs toilet that led to this giant, gaping hole in the living room ceiling.





Truly, it was just laughable at that point.

Because if we didn’t laugh (after bi***ing and moaning an excessive mount), we cried.

But laughing or crying, or any emotion in between, we—yet again—faced the enormous hurdle of setting all that disappointment and pain aside, in order to dive in and make headway.

We made lists, bought supplies, and spent a really challenging weekend of hard manual labor and organization. But it was vital work: taking inventory of  materials and purchases, cleaning out debris and abandoned supplies, and preparing for the next wave of contractors.

The new construction company dove in immediately. Placed flooring and carpet within the week, and paused work long enough for us to move into our house with only one functioning toilet and sink (not within the same bathroom)—and not much else that was actually usable.

The Move-In

Of course, if I thought things were stressful before the move, imagine my dismay to find that it was so much worse after.

Because I was officially living in a house with three young children, boxes, power tools and debris everywhere—and upwards of nine contractors in the house on any given day.

Plumbers, electricians, painters, air conditioning maintenance personnel, lead contractors and vendors to deal with installation of shutters, appliances and so on and so forth. One day, the electrician came to repair the non-functional doorbell and couldn’t even complete the work, because the noise within the house was so loud, he couldn’t even hear it ringing.

Worse still—the hubby was not able to take a single day off work for the move. Was often at the office extremely late into the evening. And even out of town a few times throughout those initial weeks.

It was the worst.

Truly the toughest weeks we’ve lived through as a family.

During that time, we had:

• Not one, not two, but three leaks in Little Man’s bathroom.
• Two holes in our downstairs ceiling—from both the toilet leak in Little Man’s bathroom, and another one in the girls’ bathroom.
• Shower tile in the girls’ bathroom that had to be ripped out and redone because of faulty plumbing work.
• The kiddos’ rooms and a playroom of brand new carpet that had to be ripped up, repurchased and reinstalled because of faulty measurements and seam placing.
• An air conditioning coil with a leak that led to extremely costly repairs—only a portion of which were covered under our home warranty.
• Entire boxes of stacked stone tile that were opened and found to be in crumbled pieces.
• Our most expensive lighting fixture gone missing for three weeks during the shipment process before it finally reappeared.
• Our master shower glass that was mismeasured the first time, then shattered in transit the second time.
• Our priciest pool equipment stolen.
• Our microwave (that was removed and in the garage) stolen.
• Wallpaper for the powder bath that showed up as two different shades for two different rolls.
• A sectional that was delivered without legs—then a replacement delivery that only provided four of the eight legs we needed, leaving that major piece of furniture unusable for a full month.
• Our heaviest and fanciest mirror broken in the move—along with two dressers, and countless other minor furniture items that incurred damage  en route.
• Mismeaurements for pretty much every tile within the house, and countless fixes that had to be done for plumbing, electrical and miscellaneous work, since one party began the renovation, and another saw it through to near completion.

If my sense of humor had been in tact in any way, shape or form during the above, it would have been hysterical.

But it was not.

And still is not.

Though I’m sure with time, it might get there. Might.

The Final Blow

Fast forward a few weeks and the bathrooms were mostly completed, the boxes were at least starting to diminish, and things were beginning to feel as though they might come to an end—at some point this century.

But the one hurdle we still faced was the kitchen, due to the difficulty of finding a carpenter.

The contractor we hired to handle the flooring and bathrooms was not capable of completing the kitchen cabinetry work anytime in the near future, because their carpenter was full-on at capacity—as were others in the area that we explored.

So when one of the members of the original renovation crew—a carpenter by trade—requested the opportunity to submit a proposal, we allowed it.

This crew member had been instrumental in tracking down subcontractors who were in possession of our ordered countertops, plumbing components, tile, etc., in the immediate aftermath of our original contractor’s departure. So even though I found him to be gruff, he’d helped us out in our bind, he seemed to have the experience, the capacity to handle the job, and the ability to get going straight away.

I’m sure at this point, you can see the writing on the wall.

Although this chapter of our story tells a slightly different tale than our original criminal contractor. 

This secondary criminal contractor (that’s correct, Our Renovation Story involves not one, but two) didn’t steal money.

Instead, he delivered a beautiful, custom-made, oak island. Painted our cabinets that were mounted to the wall. And then loaded up all of our kitchen cabinets doors, dining room cabinet doors, and built-in bathroom cabinet doors onto his truck for painting at his warehouse.

And was never heard from again.

The Price Of It All

In the immediate weeks after this second criminal contractor’s departure, we vasillated between assuming the worst and hoping for the best—despite (or perhaps, because of) all that we’d been through.

We couldn’t possibly be going through this again, could we???

And yet, all signs pointed toward the worst, but most obvious conclusion—until stumbling upon another local resident with a similar disappearing-act experience with this contractor finally put the nail in the coffin.

This was our reality.

Not once, but twice.

And the mourning process had to begin all over again.

I’d love to say that it hurt less the second time, but the opposite held true. Because the first was such a shock, and it was money alone, so it was slightly more predictable and understandable, I suppose.

But the second time was far worse, because of the harder rationalization it involved. (Why would someone steal cabinet doors of an irregular size that were specific to our kitchen???)

And because it somehow felt like our fault.

You know—fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice....

It was hard. And shameful. And embarrassing. And maddening. And really, really saddening. And just awful to consult with lawyers and private investigators and insurance companies, in order to really lay out our options. And exponentially difficult because we’d already been hit so hard financially with the original theft—and this second hit was alarmingly substantial, once we received estimates to replace all that was stolen and realized how much those doors were worth.

Honestly, I’ve spent many a day since this whole process began, feeling as thought we just keep sustaining hit after hit after hit, and there are few lessons to be learned. Why did this move, that was so emotionally debilitating to begin with, have to be so damn hard?

We were happy in Dallas. So happy. And settled. And this process felt like a punishment when it was meant to be an opportunity for career growth and an exciting next chapter for our family. 

At the beginning of all the really tough parts, my husband, who views the world in such a beautiful and simplistic way, said to me: “you know, we’ve had so much good, it’s okay if we have a little bad.” And I sort of loathed him for it at the time, because I knew that he was right, but I was so angry about it all.

And I think that’s the hardest part about all of this: the anger and the sadness of these violations and criminal acts.

Harder still to work through—for me—is the feeling that this is all our fault. If we’d selected a home that didn’t require renovations, or if we’d kept better tabs on the minutia of the labor being done, or if we’d done more research into each contractor than we already did...we wouldn’t be in this mess.

But the rational part of my brain knows that’s really not true. I’m just looking to place blame on myself because I’m unable to place blame on those who really inflicted these difficulties upon us, and it’s just human nature to want to know why and how could you and what’s it all for, and this is just my way of working through those complicated questions.

The Light At The End

I suppose there are a few major things I always try to keep in perspective as I work through the past few months and all the yuck it has involved.

Strep throat aside (minor attempt at humor here), my family is healthy. We are financially stable, and we were able to regroup and finish a project that might have crippled us to a catastrophic point if we had overextended or taken on too much. Despite my own emotional difficulties in handling this move, my children are thriving and acclimating beautifully.

This, too, shall all pass.

And though I know it will remain one of the toughest periods we have ever lived through, I have to believe there is a purpose behind it all, and we’re here in SA for a reason.

My mental health may have been shaken, but I can feel it building itself back up, brick by brick, as all of this home dust finally settles, our routine returns back to normal a little more every day, and we make new, happy memories here—both small and large—to help outweigh the negative.

I don’t blame our house for all that is happened.

I’d still buy it and renovate it all over again (just perhaps with different contractors).

And I’m going to try my hardest—as my hubby shows me every day with his resilience and simplistic beliefs—that it’s still better to assume the good in all people, despite the experiences we’ve had.

The (Almost) End

As things truly wrap up with this whole renovation in the next few weeks, I’ll try to share more before and after pictures to continually focus on the good.

And in the meantime...if you have any happy mojo, send it our way, so that we can continue to rebuild in all ways, as corny as that sounds.

Life is so blessed, as long as my crazy unit is together, in one piece.

And I have a feeling we’re going to make this home a very happy and lively one—just as we always have before.

:)

There is a purpose to all things, and a story behind any major life change. And this just happens to be a part of ours.