You know you’re getting older when you catch your adult kids walking around with a tape measure envisioning the remodel after you’re dead. Actually, in our younger son’s case, he’s sort of hoping for the remodel
“You could really do something with this place,” he enthuses hopefully when he and his wife and the kids and dog are down for the weekend. He envisions, at minimum, a second-story master suite angled to maximize what would be an unobstructable ocean view, a wrap-around front porch for waving to the neighbors in our family-friendly neighborhood, and reconverting the ill-considered 1955 garage remodel back into a garage (amen to that). We’re very clear that his fantasies include a remodel to his specifications on our dime.
We couldn’t agree more that this tiny house on a prime lot could be morphed into a really fantastic place. It’s had a lot of interior upgrades over time, but it is still the original 1947 footprint. Its 1,600 square feet (including the nasty-wood-paneled converted garage) felt enormous when my ex and I bought it in 1973, much smaller when we added two kids, positively palatial when the kids departed, and now totally sardine-ish when both kids and families show up. We think it will make a wonderful remodel for someone. But we’re not those someones.
I’ll confess that a part of me has always regretted that the timing was never right for that view remodel (divorce, college bills etc.). As we’ve explained to the kids, the house, the cars, and their educations are finally all paid off. Definitely not looking for more debt, except at tax time when we realize our deduction-less tax burden singlehandedly supports several branches of state and federal government.
We’ve told our younger son that we think all of his remodel ideas are wonderful and that we will be happily looking down (or up) on them when the time comes. He actually owns his own house in L.A. so it’s not like he and his family don’t have a very nice roof over their heads. But I think if you grow up in La Jolla, you never lose the draw to this place.
Of course, the other way you know you’re getting old, besides the kids standing on the roof with a sketchpad, is you have to set up those nagging Living Will instructions. (It’s pretty much all downhill once you wake up on your 50th birthday and find both an AARP card and an appointment for a routine colonoscopy in the mail.)
But one does have to decide at some point who will make decisions for one’s healthcare once neither you nor your spouse are able to. Did we want to appoint our older son, the clinical social worker who runs programs for the homeless and has done hospice care? Or should we go for the younger son who has an MBA?
In our fantasies, the social worker kid is sitting by our bedside adjusting our blankets and patiently listening to our endless repetitious stories as he quietly strokes our hands. The MBA kid, we envision, is parked on the other side, iPod earbuds cranked up to 120 decibels to drown out the annoying stories, comforting us with one hand, and calculating the negative cash flow of long-term care on the estate on his Blackberry with the other. Next thing we know, Pffft! Someone accidentally trips over the plug and we’re buried in the backyard.