Last night Ed and I built the world's dumbest birdhouse for a school project. Laugh -- I thought I would die. If anyone ever put the darn thing up, the poor wee things would die of a draft, or else they'd impale themselves on all the nails sticking out at weird angles. We worked in the kitchen, because the kitchen table is the closest thing I have to a flat empty surface. I held the wood while Ed pounded. First he'd hit his thumb (holding the nail -- he'd curse), then the kitchen table, then my thumb (holding the plywood -- I'd curse). Then he'd hit the nail dead on, and drive it right through the wood and into the table, sticking the birdhouse fast. We'd pull it out, both of us cursing.
Yes, an R-rated project. Gangsta parenting.
What a failure I am as a carpenter. So many dads would do this better. St Joseph comes to mind -- or those guys on TV who do renovations -- or indeed anyone with more than one power tool. (I have a drill with two speeds: Low, and Even Lower.) But what a great bonding experience. If Ed had been older we could have had a drink afterwards. As it was, I had a glass of wine, and Ed had a bowl of Lucky Charms. Good enough.
Another kid tale tomorrow -- this one a success story. I'd give it to you now, but I am SO FAR BEHIND on editing my page proofs that I can feel the wind of the boot approaching my backside. I have ONLY HOURS before they are due. In fact I shouldn't even be TYPING THIS.