The painters took down my house numbers. Ah, well. I never liked them anyway. All odd, masculine numbers. Maybe I’ll choose a collection of even numbers this time, I thought. Perhaps my birthday, so I’ll remember it.
(I’m not so foolish. I’m just whimsical.)
I thought of setting it aside until someone asked if I had a task that needed completed. And then I read this sentence in a book: “No. She will handle this on her own.”
Yes. Yes, she will.
I enlisted my helpers. They unwrapped the numbers, they handed me masking tape, they took turns riding down the driveway in the wagon.
I called in reinforcements at one point: my neighbor. Can you tell me why the screw isn’t going into the wall? Ah, so a drill operates in a reverse direction as well, then. Noted.
I drilled. I placed. I measured. I caulked. I rocked it.
I found the old kitchen towels, from our Kohl’s wedding registry, chosen with charm more than twelve years ago. Cranberry gingham. I used those to wipe away the excess caulk. And then I painted over the excess of the excess.
My helpers (still in their jammies) were really quite helpful, until Tyler caulked a rock to the wall and drilled a hole in the house. Not so much the goal.
I set him aside with my iPhone, inviting him to take pictures. He distracted himself with a different task involving a paring knife and some grapes. (Which was maybe not so wise, since he has now claimed ownership and obsession of the knives in our house.)
“Mommy, I’m a million times super proud of you.”
Thanks, buddy. I kind of am, too.