Bunk

On Sunday, I stood among a pile of 200 pieces of bunk bed and called Luca and Elijah over.

“Hey guys, Dada is going to put this thing together and I’m probably going to yell at you a lot.”

They paused from banging stuff with my hammers to give me a look of “Duh, what else is new?”

About 2 hours later I had abandoned all my clothes except boxer shorts.  I was covered in sweat, making modifications to the IKEA design with my drill to cover the epic mistake I made with a wooden dowel. 

I had, in fact, yelled at the boys.  A lot.  There is something about my utter ineptitude that shortens my fuse.  Especially when little hands keep stealing screws and little voices keep asking, “When is this ever going to be finished, Dada?”

Eventually, I got the evil Swedish thing together.  And promptly ruined my sons’ lives.

Luca spent the entire night following this plan:  1. Fall out of bottom bunk.  2. Cry.  3. Scream. 4. Wake up brother.  5. Repeat.

Granted, Luca’s fall was only 2 inches, since the bottom bunk is essentially a mattress on the floor, but Diana and I still took turns racing into the boys’ room to console Luca all night. 

I crawled in Luca’s bed to help teach him the proper way to sleep.  He thrashed and flipped around and summersaulted and continuously kicked me in the face.  “This is how you sleep, you lunatic?” I thought.

But his life until this point had the friendly confines of a crib.  Until last night he could bounce around as much as he wanted without problem.  But now he had freedom.  Horrible freedom.

He was like a felon who couldn’t adjust to life outside the prison walls. 

On a side note, in of my trips in to the room, I found Elijah sleeping with his lower half dangling over the side of the top bunk.  He didn’t seem to care.