Day Two...

On day two I get started on the entranceway, ripping up the diarrhea colored school tiles and getting ready to paint the concrete floor. We’ve done so much with this old house, but it seems like there’s still so much left to do.

Oh, well, I snag a beer from the fridge and get cracking, chipping away at the tiles and breathing the sweet, tangy taste of asbestos.

The dogs are confused. There’s loud music, no kid, no wife. Just sweat, beer and some manly grunting that may or may not sound like a little old lady crying.

I’m hauling things out of the sunroom to the carport, and I can just feel the testosterone in air. This place is like a frat house. A frat house with singing toys and a high chair and aww…he left his little shoes. They’re so cute in my hands. I miss his little feet, the little chubby rolls on his arms and legs.
I hear a voice in my head, it's yelling. "Snap out of it you pansy!"

Okay, okay, I’ve got my shop vac out. I stare at it, overturned on the floor. My son would be so jealous, he has a thing for vacuum cleaners, the kid is obsessed. Another pang of guilt ripples through my stomach, or that could be the tacos. Either way, I miss that kid.

I miss him holding the water bottle in my mouth while I lay down on the kitchen floor. (long story, but sure gets a kick out of enhanced interrogation).

I miss those little morning chats with himself when he wakes up in the morning.

I miss…you know what, I’m not doing this. "Man up dammit!"

Smacking myself silly, i pull myself together. 

Back to work…

Day One...

My wife and son, along with my wife's best friend and her kids, have piled into a mini van and hit the road for their annual trip to North Country. For those keeping score, that's two women, a seven year old, a three year old, and a year and a half year old. I will hang back and retain my sanity hold the fort down.

Not to worry, I have a list of projects to complete and some television to catch up on, and I’m wasting no time getting started. But first, supplies.

I hit up Walmart where I buy a family size box of Apple Jacks. I like Apple Jacks because they’re nutritional (hence the Apple), and yet still delicious. It’s a cereal that straddles the line between healthy and tasty and at 14 months shy of 40, I feel an air of maturity as I pass up the Cocoa Pebbles. I grab milk and beer and I head for the register, proud of myself for just getting the necessities.

Back at the house, I begin project number one, polishing up my son’s floors. I get a coat of polyurethane down and open the windows, thinking, maybe I should have done that in a different order. But I wanted to get this done first so that any fumes would be clear before my son was back. Hopefully those flying elephants will be gone by then as well.

With the dogs walked, the shopping done, and the first coat of poly on the floors, I take a hiatus from the whirlwind of productivity that is swirling throughout the house with the fumes. Time for a movie. This is 40 (I’m noticing a theme here). When the movie came out, I remember thinking that I wanted to see it. Now, two years later, with four servings of Apple Jacks crammed into my bowl; I decide to do just that.

Settling in with the dogs, it seems I've forgotten just how long movies are, and I’m maybe a half hour in when I remember that I should water the plants. After all, I wouldn't want my wife to come home to find all of her flowers wilting and starved, so I pause the move, water the garden and get sidetracked when I think of how much my son loves the hose. Then I return to the movie.

This is strange. I’m so used to my evening routine with the fam. Play, his dinner, play, our dinner, play, bath, scream bloody murder, bed. Repeat. Now I’m lost without it, it’s just…..shouldn’t I be enjoying this more? Usually, I’m dreaming of spare time and now I have a block of it, all of the silence I could wish for....and it’s weird.

But seriously, how did I used to sit down for an entire movie? Before the kid, my wife and I would watch marathons of tv shows and movies. But now my brain is just not used to sitting and I can't shut it down. I feel this nagging need to be, *gulp*, productive. Thanks a lot, honey...

The movie is funny, but I don’t finish it, I have all week. Tomorrow, I’m planning to paint the entrance way, so maybe I can catch the rest of it while the paint dries.  

I'll keep you posted.

Get Goin'

All Done...

With what seems like thousands of toys in our house, it only makes sense that my son loves the garden hose and the vacuum more than anything else in his precious little life. Sure, toss him a ball and he’ll roll it around….for about three seconds, show him a book and you may have a couple of minutes. But break out that hose or vacuum, and then get out of the way...

It all started when we had to get a new water main dug in and we were left with a forty foot trench in our front yard. So we had to plant grass, which means we had to water the grass, which means that now if my son goes into the front yard, he wants that hose, like really wants the hose.

At first it was cute, and we posted pictures of our little helper:

Just look at that concentration, this guy is really into it. But what the picture doesn't show is the drama of saying the words, All done before turning the water off, then trying to gently wrestle the hose from his chubby little fist as he produces apocalyptic wails of agony that leave the neigbors turning their heads and peeking out the windows. It’s bad, we're talking, looking for a squad car to slow in front of the house, bad.

Okay, so that’s the hose situation. Inside, we have the vacuum cleaner situation. Every morning—sometimes bare butt after escaping a diaper change—my son rushes out to the hallway closet, frantically pointing to the door, because he knows. It's there. It being the noisy monster on wheels with hoses and cords and suction, the tormentor of four legged creatures, and the waker of anyone trying to steal an additional minute of Sunday morning sleep.

It being the vacuum cleaner.

We can't even utter the V word in his prescence. Let this dude near the vacuum cleaner and go ahead and clear your morning schedule. It's on, so to speak, and observations of this love/hate relationship with this machine could fill a medical journal. 

And no matter where you store that vacuum, he’s going to find it. It’s like he has a GPS on that thing. So in the end we always allow a little vacuum cleaner time, because, well, it’s not going to hurt to clean up a little around our house. But it’s never enough. Once you turn it on it stays on. My son will vacuum until the threads of the rug fray, until the vacuum starts to moan with exhaustion, until the dogs start to chew the walls with nervous energy, until we finally have to say the two words that send him into a tailspin of agony and tears: All done.

 All Done brings with it the pout lip. His eyes well as the tears gather strength and pour down those rounded cheeks. He’ll look to the sky. Why father? Why must we be all done? Yeah, I blame the drama on his Mama.

Then, the other night he woke up crying. Only for a minute or so, and then he fell back asleep and all was calm in the house. My wife rolled over to me and asked if I thought he had nightmare. I suppose, I said, but really, what could he possibly have nightmares about?  There was only one thing we could think of: All Done.