When the Water Broke
Great moments in building history: "Nesting" takes on an interesting form sometimes
A month or so after our first baby was born, we found a 1940s brick cottage. It had been severely neglected. But we were young and severely lacking in sleep, so we bought it. I am one of those fortunate wives to have a husband who works on his own house, who sticks with a project until it is done. So everyone was happy.
Repairs and renovations went nicely. Two years along, we found ourselves almost ready to tackle the antiquated, inadequate, hideous kitchen. But there were a couple of problems. We were expecting again, and my husband had a new job that kept him on the road Monday through Friday. So he was reluctant to start such a huge project until things settled down.
But that kitchen … The electrical service was scary. The water heater filled the pantry and had a 10-ft. length of copper tubing sticking out of the top, the last vestige of the former homeowner’s jury-rigged hookup for his icemaker. The dryer stuck out the pantry door because it was sharing the gas line with the water heater. The washing machine was plumbed in the former porch.
You know what they say about expectant women who start “nesting” in their last month. So one night, around 11:00, when my husband was safely holed up in Marathon, Ontario, only 1,400 miles away, I took a sledgehammer to the kitchen.
All was going well. I’d just about filled up the back of his pickup with debris, and I was ready to call it a night when I saw that pesky length of copper tubing. It always bopped me when I was trying to put wet laundry in the dryer, a hard-enough task in itself when you can’t bend in the middle. So I thought, “I’ll just coil it up.” The next thing I heard was the psssst of hot water coming out of a small hole very fast. I didn’t know much about compression fittings (I still don’t), but I did know that I had a real problem. The kitchen was getting wet quickly, and the valves on the water heater were awfully corroded.
So I made that fateful phone call. “Honey, don’t feel under any pressure, but I started the kitchen renovation and … ” In a pretty calm voice, he gave me lots of advice. I tried everything he suggested (more or less) and in the end realized that I was stuck turning off the house water until the hardware store opened in the morning.
Of course, the only way to do that was to find the water-meter box between the sidewalk and the street, reach down into it, find the valve in the mud and give it a quarter-turn with a wrench. I found the meter and dug down to the valve (did I mention it was raining and January?), but turning it was impossible. Fortunately, a puzzled police officer on patrol slowed down to see why an extremely pregnant woman was lying down in her front yard with a flashlight at 2 a.m. He managed to turn the valve.
A year later, the kitchen was done, a dream in white and maple, stenciled floor, one of those big Kohler apron sinks, nickel faucets to match the original home hardware. The baby was a girl (born early).
Of course, we were transferred. Last thing, we had to replace a toilet. This time, my husband was only 900 miles away. I called a plumber. Before he started, he went outside and turned a valve next to the outside faucet. “Why are you turning off the sprinkler?” I asked. He laughed. “This is the main valve for your house water,” he said, and went inside to do his job.
—Sarah Colvin Unfried, Redding, CT
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