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interruptions and aggravations

1644 Views 19 Replies 17 Participants Last post by  Johnson724
I am having one of those days. I decided to get out there this morning to work on the 2nd cemetery column. Just as I get the dremel out, start sanding on the column, my 6yr old comes outside and says mommy I want a halloween project to do.. OK I tell her to go change and get some old clothes on. 2 minutes later, I can't find old clothes. OK so I have to stop yet again, and go help find old clothes.

I get her to painting on my brand new tombstone project. I look over and she has paint 1/2 inch thick on it.. (I keep my mouth shut and shake my head). Mommy I am out of paint, jeez I just got started once again. OK lets stop and get more paint.. She has enough on the top for two coats on the whole thing..

Finally I get her settled and I get into the grove of sanding and removing styrofoam (this is where I am going to have the brick work), OK now it is time to flip this baby onto its side. Check, done. Dang now I need to move it closer to the tools, oh and the outdoor fan. Look around honey is cutting tree limbs, hate to bother him. I'll ask my 6yr old, I mean this thing is styrofoam and it isn't heavy.

She comes over and grabs the bottom, I have the top and we move it, Just as I am telling her gently sit her end down...BAM, she drops her end..I sit my end down and walk over.. Yep it has about 4 sections that have come unglued and another couple of sections that have some cracks... My husband comes over and says honey is there anything I can help you do.. My daughter is apologizing. I am hot, tired, and cranky. All I can do is go inside and cool off.

This little incident just set me back about 4 bucks for more liquid nails, which I have to drive 30 minute to town to purchase . Another hour to repair the cracks, and loose boards. Then more sanding, to even out those areas. Then start back right where I was.. AARRGGGHHH.

So that's where you guys come in, only you would know what and how this feels... FRUSTRATING.

Does anyone else have a bad day story like this.
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· Mill Creek Haunted Hollow
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The project that never was . . . because of my girls. :eek:

A sunny day in June. Not too hot, not too cool. Blue sky abounds, birds chirp, morning dew fades into the green grass. Its 8am and a perfect day for prop building.

My three girls are sitting around the television watching the Disney channel and my very pregnant wife is sleeping in upstairs. I have my coffee, head into the garage, and start looking around to see what I can build today. It's a wonderful feeling.

I'm in the middle of several projects, but this morning I think I'll take a break from the big builds and use some of the scrap styrofoam I have and build a simple prop. A graveyard obelisk. Nothing too grand, just a three foot high obelisk.

I get started. Of course, to get started means I need to clean up the garage a bit, make sure all my tools are where I need them to be, and I need to collect all the loose bits of styrofoam to see what I can actually build.

9am: tools in order, path carved out of the garage, stack of styrofoam odds and ends. At this point, my oldest daughter (#1, age 12) comes out. "Dad, Elly (#3, age 2) doesn't want to watch Disney channel anymore."

My response, "Okay, why don't you turn the tv off and play with her in the sunroom?"

Good, good. Problem solved. Now to start putting these styro pieces together. Measure, sketch, draw, measure, cut, measure, cut, dry fit, measure . . . all is looking good. Radio playing, Xacto blades are sharp, things are coming together.

10am: Samantha (#2, age 5) comes out, "Whatcha doing? Can I help?"

My response, "Oh, honey, not right now. I'm just trying to put things together right now, and then I need to glue. Maybe this afternoon you can help me paint while Elly (#3) is down for her nap? Okay?"

To my good fortune, her response is, "okay". Whew! Lucky break, now back to work on this beautiful Saturday morning with the clear skies and chirping birds and tunes on the radio and, oh, coffee's cold. All right, I'm doing good. Time for a refill, I'll just go inside.

When I come in from the garage, my wife is standing next to the coffee pot. "Oh, good morning honey. Did you sleep well?" Of course, I know better than to ask my wife this when she is nine months pregnant. She asks me if the coffee is decaf, "yes, of course, I know you can't have caffeine right now."

I spend the next 15 minutes chatting with my wife about how hard it is to sleep on one's side, and how the little wiggle-bug kept her up, and how her back hurts, her feet hurt, and she felt she HAD to come downstairs because the girls were making too much noise in the sunroom.

"Okay, honey, you know I love you. Have your coffee, enjoy some breakfast, and here's the morning paper. Love you; sorry you don't feel tip-top, I'll go tell the girls to not be so loud." I say in my most honest, I love you and I understand voice.

"Girls, keep it down! Mom's up and she didn't sleep well. Sam (#2), get off Elly(#3)! Kylara (#1), why aren't you helping?" I say in my authoritative dad voice.

"Um, I think Elly is poopy" is my oldest daughter's response.

"Ok, I'll change her." I proceed to work with the girls while my wife has her coffee. I change a diaper, get everyone dressed, start a load of laundry, wash a messy face, dust buster a cereal spill, etc.

Now I look at the clock, hoping I can get back to working on the obelisk. Crap, it's already 11 o'clock? Where is this morning going???

I duck out to the garage and finish cutting the main sides of the obelisk. I'm proud of what I have accomplished. Four sides, all lining up, excess styrofoam has been shaved away, masking tape is helping to hold things together while the glue dries. I think to myself, "I'll let the glue dry and go make lunch for the girls."

Come back into the house from the garage to find my wife dressed and ready to go, #1 trying to put a coat on #3, and #2 is still in the sunroom playing with an audio book. "Hey, Honey, what's going on?" I ask.

"Elly (#3) is being a real drain. She won't stop climbing over Sammy (#2) and Kylara (#1) has to be at a friend's house at noon for a party." Says my pregnant wife.

"Party? What party?" I ask.

"Dad, you know. I'm supposed to go over to _____'s house for the mexican party today. We're all going to make different mexican foods and play games and stuff." Says my 12 year old in her most innocent voice.

"Okay, okay. I didn't realize that was today (actually, I didn't know anything about it. Damn girls with their cell phones). Tell you what, you drive #1 over to her party and I'll make lunch for Sam and Elly. How does that sound?"

"Oh, that would be wonderful. If you don't mind, could you just feed them lunch and then put Elly down for her nap? I need to go to the store anyway," says my wife.

So now my support structure is gone, and I'm outmanned with a two year old and a five year old. Okay, this is fine, I can do this. The glue is drying, I'll just make some lunch -- something quick -- ah-hah! Hot dogs. It's a perfect day for hotdogs, and we even have buns!

Cut to the chase, for those of you who know, trying to make lunch for a picky eater and a messy eater is difficult. "I want a bun, I don't want a bun, I want ketchup, I want my hotdog cut up, I want applesauce, can I have juice, I dropped my hotdog, ketchup can double as finger paint . . . some of you have surely been there.

Lunch is done, Elly is washed off, and now it's time for a nap. A binky and a quick story -- off you go. No fuss, no muss.

Stop crying -- it's just a nap. You take a nap every day. This shouldn't be a big deal. C'mon kid, stop banging on the door. Why are you still crying? Okay, here's a daddy hug and some kisses and I'll tuck you in again and here's your bear and please be a good girl and take your nap. Where's your sister?

My five year old, with incredibly selective memory, took it upon herself to get her painting clothes on and go out to the garage. Fortunately, she can't open a can of paint, but she can run around in the garage and stop on bits of styrofoam and play with the caulking gun to make, "little white worms".

Okay, okay, this is fine, I can work with this! It's only 12:30pm, I still have the rest of the afternoon. I can do this! (Sometimes the best thing to do is psych yourself up). I take the three foot tall obelisk out to the driveway so that Sammy can start painting. The glue has dried, it feels pretty stable, and I think painting is something she can handle. I give her a two inch brush and a sour cream container half full of grey paint. I figure she can paint while I get to work on the tiered base. So I'm back to measuring and cutting, listening to the radio, and enjoying a nice afternoon.

My five year old is in the driveway painting the obelisk, her shirt, the driveway, and a leaf -- for some reason. Okay, I can work with this. She's helping. The parenting books say it's important to include them. Let them think they're helping, give them a sense of accomplishment.

"Samantha, you're going a great job! Try painting the other side. No, the other side. No, not that one, the side that's still white. Yes, that side!! No, start at the top. No, honey, the top. THE TOP!!" At this point, the perfectionist in my forces me to stop building the base, and go "help" my five year old. She's happy to let me take over, since she's been focused on one task for more than ten minutes already. I finish painting the base coat on the obelisk and pride returns to my heart. Oh, that's looking good. I really like that. That's going to be great!

So, I take Sam inside to wash her hand, arms, and face. That's when I notice the grey paint in her hair. Okay, no big deal, I can do this. "You know what, Sammy, I think you need to take a bath." And that's what I proceed to do. I figure I can let the paint dry in the afternoon sun and give my five year old a quick bath to get the paint off her hands, arms, face, hair . . . and foot?

"How did you get paint on your foot" You were wearing shoes! Okay, never mind -- into the tub, I made bubbles! (by this, I mean a bubble bath)"

So #1 is off at a party, #2 is on the tub, and #3 is asleep for her nap. I'm juggling, but I'm actually getting things done. It's not too bad. I can wash up Sam, put her in front of a movie, and get back outside to continue working.

Oh crap! All of Sam's clothes are in her room -- which she shares with #3. And #3 is down for her nap. Okay, time to look around the house and see what clothes haven't been put away. Check the dryer -- nothing. Sun room? Ah, good, found a shirt. No pants, but a shirt is a good start.

So, I get Sam out of the sudsy tub, towel her off, put on her shirt and wrap a towel around her waist. That's when we hear the front door open. "Oh, good," I think, "my wife must be home from the store -- now she can help."

So Sam and I come out of the bathroom to great my wife. My wife tells me there are several bags of groceries in the back of the van and she could use my help unloading and . . . "Why is Sam is a towel?" she asks.

I then start to explain that Sam was helping me paint an obelisk that is currently drying in the driveway, she got really messy so I thought I should give her a bath, don't worry, Elly is down for her nap so we had the time . . . Wait a minute!!!!

"Didn't you see the obelisk in the driveway when you pulled up? It was right there in the driveway were you usually park the van!!"

That's when the three of us dash out the front door. My pregnant wife with a bag of groceries, myself with wet forearms and damp knees, and my five year old, who dashes out the front door wearing her t-shirt - but not her towel.

My wife thought it would be good to back the van into the driveway to make it easier to unload the groceries. She never saw the grey, three foot obelisk sitting in the middle of the driveway where she usually parks.

She ran over it. Not just knocking it over and getting it trapped under the car - no, no, that I could repair. She RAN IT OVER. Like some poor animal begging for me to finish it off, my still-drying obelisk was pinned under the rear passenger tire of the van. Flat, lifeless, with a faint streak of grey paint running up the tread of the tire.

I don't know how cried more that day, my five year old, or me.
 
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