Here is exactly what I e-mailed my diligent and hard working contractor, Mr. Chad: “Nancy’s birthday is this week, and all she wants is a CO (certificate of occupancy). You and I could both be in trouble if we mess that one up.”
A certificate of occupancy is that final step — that critical inspection — you need right before you officially occupy your new house, or in our case, addition.
It’s that prize, that finish line, that little jewel that dangles down for you, always seemingly in reach, but always just a day or two away. It’s doubly difficult when you’re living in the old part of the house and the new part keeps teasing and tantalizing you — just within your grasp, but blowing you raspberries. To get to our old bathroom, we had to walk through our new addition. Sometimes I would avert my eyes, trying not to long too much for it while the final finishing touches were put into place. “Darn, if I just didn’t have to pee!”
Finally we were down to, well, nothing but the CO. And it fell perilously close to my wife’s birthday.
I asked her what she wanted as a gift this year, and she said, “Honey, I don’t need anything. You got me a house.” She said it in all honesty and with genuine gratitude. And then: “I’d just be happy if we got the CO by my birthday.”
Yowza!
So I fired off the e-mail to Mr. Chad.
“That should not be a problem!” he wrote back, and on the morning of her birthday, Mr. Chad showed up with the building official — Mr. CO. The only thing that would have been more perfect is if they had bows on their heads (and bottles of champagne!)
Most importantly, we passed muster. No issues. No hurdles. The house had not fallen down. Just a green light to move in and commence ruining the new pad. Oh, but the corner joints were all neat and ding-free. And the floors smooth with no dog-nail scratches. I’m convinced my dog has steel for claws, and she digs them deep down into the hardwood floors, spinning her paws like a cartoon character until she gets traction, at which point she bolts about the house for no apparent reason. (Deep ruts are left in the floor like farm machinery has just plowed the room.)
There are no fingerprints on the walls or dog hair “dust puppies.” And it was such a nice addition before we moved in.
I wrote once before about how we were finally going to have a big kid house, with big kid niceties and big kid amenities. Like insulation. (Remember, the old part of my house is 100 years old.)
I stood in my new bedroom kind of amazed this was mine — a house like I had always imagined, but one that I figured I would never have. And I wondered what it said about me. Did this big kid house finally make me a big kid? The nice trim. The gorgeous floors. The doors that didn’t creak when you opened them or the windows that seemed to keep out the wind. This couldn’t be my house.
The first night we slept in our new bedroom, my wife said, “It’s going to take some getting used to. It’s kind of like staying in a hotel.”
But we’re getting used to it … fast! Used to the trucks being gone, along with the hammers and drills. Used to the space and the new adventures ahead.
So we thank you Mr. Chad, along with your cohort Mr. Jay and all the other Mr. Workers who helped build our grand big kid house. Now if you’ll excuse us, we’ve got some exploring to do.