The State of Our Union

Mr Husband, Mr Son, Mr. Smaller Son, Distinguished Fur Bastard:

We gather tonight knowing our years of investment and service to The Imig family Home. Sixteen years of coupledom, 7 and 5 years of boychildren, and 15 years (7 of 9 feline lives) respectively. For the first time in years there are no Imigs leaving weapons of mass destruction in basement corners or under furniture, and our house is more respected and safer for unsuspecting playdates and their parents.

We began as a duo, traversing the North Side of Chicago. From my first apartment above a crack-den on State and Division, to our thrift store love nest in Wriglyville beneath the El train, through to our first mortgage–a condo in Edgewater filled with wedding registry items and an infant son—we nested. And on to our single family home in Madison, Wisconsin: Our current state.

These achievements are a testament to the courage, selflessness, and
teamwork of two now far away, but once-shiny human beings—who spent weekends scouring garage sales and second-hand stores for eclectic furniture, invested months in careful (him) leather vs. (her) shabby shic furniture debate, only to lay down thousands of dual-income-no-kids dollars in a matter of minutes in one grand Room & Board surrender at the turn of the millennium. Who lovingly selected the exact shade of Cafe Latte: Benjamin Moore 1054. Who framed, leveled, and hung photos, nay who read Dwell magazine and went forth to purchase fabric and stretch it over frames for headboards!

Imagine what we could accomplish if we followed their example. Think about the Imig household Design Within Reach.

We can do this. I know we can because we’ve done it before. Six years ago we purchased this homestead. Preschooler notwithstanding and I with child, we paint-chip spelunked, taped and rolled once again. Mr. Husband you re-habbed our entire basement—learning to drywall and electrify. How you sconced! Finding no affordable aesthetically-suitable bed for our children, to The Depot you strode with our stationwagon chariot. Not satisfied with just any board you looked through each maple slab, until you found the perfectly knotted platform for our children to slumber and nut-noogie each other upon.

The defining issue of our time is how to keep that promise alive. When did we stop seeing the pliers on our toaster oven knob? When will one of our guests fall through our splintering pleather too-good-to-be-true-Eames-style bar chairs? When, O when will we ever replace our Ikea ready-framed wall art?

Let’s remember how we got here: It began with scotch tape and coloring pages with one spasm of pencil in one torn corner we could not part with. Milk drained out of sippy cups, while leaky children mocked upholstery protection lifetime guarantees. Pee splattered with abandon upon drywall. Guys were drawn in ink in places no guys belonged. We stopped seeing shoe prints on walls, toothpaste on comforters, and whatever in God’s name sullied the shower curtain waffle weave.

That doesn’t make sense. It was wrong. It was irresponsible.

We’ve curio-ed a broken VCR for five years. Only one cloudy low-ball resides where a set of eight once sparkled. Our bathmats have become hazmats, our bedroom is feng-shcrewed. Those are the facts.

The message is simple. Stop not seeing shit. We can do better.

Each time I look at our shredded mattress cover, I’m reminded that our domestic destiny is stitched together like when I used to taper my own jeans with safety pins. No one built this single family residence on their own, and no one—not even the youngest two males present—destroyed it on their own. This house is great because we arranged it together. This nest is great because we worked as a team. This crib is great because we get each others backs and can finally get most of the pee in the toilet most of the time.

And if we hold fast to that truth, in this moment of trial, there is no challenge too great; no mission too hard–no ceramic planters on our stoop we can’t dump after three years of welcoming our guests with potted dirt and weeds. As long as we are joined in common purpose, as long as we maintain our common resolve, and get more gorgeous furniture from my mom like that buffet she gave us last month, as long as we could maybe register again–our journey moves forward, and our future is hopeful, and the state of our Union will always be strong and decreasingly smell of urine.

Thank you, God bless you, and God bless Our Imig Home.