Monday, February 11, 2008
Me vs. The Crib
When we were little, our dad almost never swore. Why? Because teaching swear words is what PG-13 movies are for. We would go months at a time without hearing so much as a “Dang” from the man.
Unless he was working with tools. Nothing could make our dad go ‘round the bend faster than putting hammer to a nail. And installing storm windows? Forget about it. My brothers and I used to sit at the top of the stairs and giggle while listening to dad damn all of his tools to a fiery eternity.
Which leads me to last weekend.
Diana rarely asks me to do things around the house that involves my workbench. Mostly because I share my father’s opinion that tools are best left in their box. Or their original packaging. That doesn’t mean we’re sissies, mind you. We just don’t want to ruin our manicures.
But we were at a critical stage of needing to lower Elijah’s crib. Now that he can stand on his own, the chances of him doing a double gainer over the side were skyrocketing. It’s a simple procedure. Unscrew 4 bolts. Lower crib mattress. Screw in 4 bolts. Baby safe.
Little did Diana know when she asked me to lower Eli’s crib that I had stripped all the bolts when I put it together the previous summer. So I spent a great part of the day Saturday swearing, throwing tools and promising to take a hatchet to every piece of furniture within a five-mile radius.
Diana just stood there, holding Eli, wondering where her mild mannered husband went and why he was replaced with a man who kept muttering, “I’m just going to burn the house down. That will show this stupid crib.”
Eventually, after a trip to Home Depot in an attempt to find migrant workers who know how to build cribs, I lowered the crib.
Then Diana asked me to install child-proof latches on all our cabinets.