We bought young son a bed. And we bought husband two dressers. (We have the world's largest walk-in closet. And a very small vanity. Guess if you have lots of shoes then you'll never need to wash your face.)
We bought the furniture from IKEA.
Which means, of course, that it all needs to be ASSEMBLED.
Actually, I'm pretty good at assembling knock-down furniture. But every piece we bought has at least three drawers. (And I hate putting together the drawers. And I've been making drawers all day and most of the day yesterday.)
What to do while sorting four hundred types of screws and sliding particle board pieces together? Listen to music--wasn't in the mood. Solicit the help of the five year old? "Is it my turn yet?" Em, no. She tends to grab the exact screw you need and involve it in a very complex fantasy game which must be worked out at just this instant. Or, better yet, she walks off with the screwdriver so it can be the stable master to her herd of horses. So although I'd love to treat her in a non-sexist manner and encourage her use of screwdrivers and understanding of furniture assembly instructions, I've had to banish her from the room or start shreaking at her.
I ended up putting on A&E P&P again. This is all just too much.
And now I find myself using the most intriguing turns of phrase. My children are all looking at me with their heads tipped ever so slightly to the left, a quizzical and slightly angered look in their eyes. They'd like their more familiar mother back now, I assume. But I confess that I like trouncing around in my new syntax.
Maybe I'll put in a pirate movie later.
In other news, my son ADORES his new bed. He keeps running into the room to lie on it--back straight, arms at his side, perfectly positioned on the center line. One can only hope for so much adulation from my husband.