around the house
It's been over a month in the making, this project. The Boy got his own room, using left-overs from L's room, but the Girl got new everything. New paint, new furniture, new decor. New everything. And now, it's finally -- finally -- finished.
The Boy woke up this morning at four. Well, that's what time it was when I finally looked at the clock. We finally got him calmed back down, we were back in bed, and the thought occurred to me: "It's still raining." It had gushed all day, with enough of a deluge in the morning that the drainage creek at the back of our backyard had overrun its banks again. Not nearly as badly as last year, but still a substantial amount of water.
"There goes our mulch," I said, but it miraculously survived.
The basement was another story. It has flooded before, but K and I were hopeful, with all the dry weather we'd been having, that we wouldn't have that problem. At four, I thought, "Better go check the basement."
Probably three inches of water in the storage room. The crawl space was worse.
Lowes opens at six; I was there shortly after six. By around six forty, the newly-purchased pump, which pumps up to twenty-six gallons a minute, was at work.
Two hours later, it was still sending water gushing out.
Another hour later, it was a trickle but still going. So if we had an average of ten gallons of water a minute (a very conservative estimate, I think), that would be 600 gallons of water an hour. At three hours, that would be close to two thousand gallons. Is that possible? Two thousand gallons in the crawl space alone? It doesn't seem possible.
But after looking at what happened in Amherstburg, Ontario, I realize how fortunate we were.
A silly idea I had, probably born of exhaustion and paint fumes. I did it after L went to bed, and K and I have decided not to say a word about it. We’ll just see when she notices it.
The Girl likes blue. When we told her that we would be moving her into the computer room, which is just a touch smaller than her room, she was distraught — until we told her we would repaint it and she could choose the color.
Monday we worked on the trim. Yesterday, I roughed in the walls, painting the edges so I could attack it today with just a roller.
Of course there was a temptation, and I did succumb to said temptation…
Today we embarked on the most time-consuming aspect of our little house project: painting. As we always do, we misjudged — or rather I misjudged — just how much more work we had to do before we could begin painting, and I was confident we would end the day with the first coat on both the trim and the walls.
First and hopefully last, for we bought paint that the clerk swore required only one coat, and no primer necessary even when changing a wall from a dark earth tone to a light blue. Still, I was hoping that even if we had to use a second coat, we could have the first one on today.
By the time we took a watermelon break in the late morning, we still hadn’t cracked open a paint can. By the time we do get painting, the Boy is in bed, the sun is high and hot, and the prospect of painting glossy white paint in blinding sun necessitated not only a hat for the head but sunglasses to protect the eyes. And since I’m not sure about the quality of L’s (which is a shame to admit), I gave her a pair of my old sunglasses and my hat — and suddenly she looked older.
As with yesterday’s helping, the Girl’s help in turn required some help. Still, fewer runs than the deck painting session.
Back inside, K and I worked to finish all the white in the house. I know this is the second photograph I’ve taking of K in this very position, but I was unable to find the first. Were we painting the living room? Repainting the living room? Painting the study-soon-to-be-L’s-room? They all seem strong possibilities, reminding me once again of the cyclical nature of working about the house.
Some of my earliest memories, when I was just a toddler, involve helping my father. The first house I lived in with my family was a brick ranch with a sizable lot behind it that was mostly overgrown and wild. At some point my father decided that leaving it fallow was a waste and that he must put the land to work. If I recall, the plan was to plant peanuts. But that involved clearing the land, and lacking any heavy machinery for the job, he did it by hand, with me “helping.” My helping is not such a clear memory, but I’d bet it was mostly getting in the way. I know I was most effective as a messenger, asking my mother to prepare a cup of coffee for Dad as well as a cup of “coffee milk” for me. Or maybe I just remember that because I heard my parents tell the story so many times. Such are first memories.
A few weeks ago, it was the Girl’s turn to help. She was actually quite helpful. Sure, I had to go back and correct some places where she’d put too much stain on and created runs, but that was easier than doing all the work myself, and the joy she got from helping was all the more priceless.
Today, as I got material ready for L’s big room change, the Boy comes down the stairs with his careful step, sitting on the bottom and watching me for a moment before rising and asking the question of the day.
“Help you, Daddy?”
What can a two-year-old do that’s truly helpful? Nothing. What can I do to help him feel helpful? Everything.
I give him a sealed bag and ask him to open it. He struggles for a while before asking, “Help me Daddy?”
In the end, I find some extra parts and a pair of needle nose pliers and ask him if he can pick up the spare parts with the pliers.
It keeps him occupied and filled with joy for at least twenty minutes.
It’s been going on for almost a week now, this bi-yearly deck project. It’s taken a bit longer each time around, and while I try to tell myself that this is because of unforeseen rain, lack of materials, or something similar, I suspect that the speed with which I do it contributes. The cleaning and staining of the the deck is something that works best during hot, clear days, and these days, I work about forty minutes to an hour, and I feel compelled to go back inside and cool off.
Getting a helper today was really an unexpected treat. First, there’s the help. Sure, there was the learning curve. And yes, yes, I did have to go back and correct some runs — it’s the poor girl’s first time, for heaven’s sake. What do you expect?
But for a beginner, she certainly showed she was a quick student with a good eye for detail.
The second reason, of course, is the simple fact of who my helper was: to have your daughter be willing to help without any cajoling or bribery is a precious thing. Okay, there was a reward, but that was after the fact, after the agreement to help, after the work was done, but she didn’t know about it when she agreed to help out.
The proof: disappointment when I told her she was done.
“Well, can I paint this?” she asked. “What about that?” I finally found some work for her, but not enough to fill the time I had left rolling stain onto the floor, so she just sat and chatted with me.
The Boy loves to help as well. His independent streak is a bit more developed than his skills are, and he often insists, in Polish, that he do something alone (“Sam!” he says), but that desire is there, and we can easily channel it.
Some days it’s as easy as channeling water; other days, not so much. But that’s what being two is all about.
“G, oh G, why did you do this?”
I was in the kitchen, having just returned from taking out the compost and checking on our garden — removing suckers from the tomatoes, looking in wonder at just how prodigious our cucumber plants will be, winding our bean stalks around the twine they’re supposed to be wrapping themselves around — and so I was confused. “What did I do?”
“You mixed the dirty clothes in with the clean.”
“No, I didn’t. I was in the garden.”
All eyes fell on E, our little helper.
The heavy rain of Sunday
produced a mini-terraced backyard.
Fortunately, it didn’t result in a flood like a year ago.