Which I, upon coming home from buying groceries, found in a Tower-of-Pisa-esque pile on the landing. Roughly 700 boxes containing several gazillion parts and absolutely useless instructions. First I tried to ignore the boxes. Then I thought, ‘ha! I’m da woman in da house, there’s nothing I can’t achieve if I set my mind to it!’
For the next hour I did my very best not to set my mind to assemble those darn beds, but finally I gave in and started to screw, hammer, nail, tape and superglue them together. The first one I did nearly twice, but then I had it figured out.
Dust-covered, sweaty and smelly I sat down on the patio with a cuppa tea and felt pretty good. Actually, I felt like the boss. Because, in my opinion, the person who nails, screws, superglues and spits together three beds in one afternoon is da boss.
Eventually my dear husband came home, handed me the two little ones and said that he was absolutely knackered after a whole day with them and it was my turn now.
Me: “Nope.”
Him: “Nope?”
Me: “Nope. It’s still your turn. I fixed those darn beds you just piled up on the landing. I’m knackereder than you are.”
Him: “Oh. Cool.” (I guess he was referring to the beds, not me being knackereder. Then again, I’m never quite sure.) He went upstairs, leaving me with the kidlets. “Whoa! Great! Good job! I thought I’d do it next time it rains.”
Me: “Uh huh ... Right … I figured I’d do it before our daughters move out.” I made sure to keep my voice down. I’m a wimp like that. Well, almost. “Oh, by the way, as of today, I’m the boss around here.”
Him, still upstairs: “You are?”
Me: “Yes I am.” Doing my best to remain cool and calm while the twins engaged in a screeching catfight over who’s got the right to stand up with the help of our lounge table. There are four sides to that table so one would think it should be possible for them to use it both at the same time. But one would be completely wrong.
Him: “How come?”
Me: “I assembled three beds in one afternoon. That’s enough qualification for the job.”
He came down and grabbed me. Behind us, pandemonium. “You’re right, babe. You’re the boss. The operative manager. The CEO.” He paused. I swear I could feel the ‘but’. “Me, I’m still the chairman, though.”
Me: “Aha. What’s that mean?”
Him: “I tell you what to do, you do it.”
Now that’s not exactly my idea of being the boss, but then he went on giving directives and they involved getting dinner fixed, the babes to bed and then putting the three brand spanking new beds to good use.
Spanking being the key word, of course.
I think I can live with not being boss as long as the general strategies sound like the above.
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