The car magazine article is accentuated with sighs. My sighs. Long drawn out sighs. Sighs that say to the cosmos- “Why did I buy a house? I was happier in my old apartment. At least there I could enjoy my Sundays without having to work on anything. I can’t even enjoy one simple magazine article? Isn’t Sunday supposed to be a day of rest?”
Alas, my sighs of outrage do little to change the fact that I had all day on Saturday to change the toilet seats and clean the truck.
I toss the magazine to the floor and look at my three year old. He’s humming to himself and using a magnet to lift little fish shapes from a wooden puzzle. Occasionally, he yells out “Fish on!” like a miniature fishing boat captain adrift on a throw rug.
I peel myself from the couch in a series of grunts (and a few more sighs) and pat his little head.
“Wanna help me change the toilet seats?” I ask.
Here’s what’s great about three year olds.
His head jerks up with eyes wide. He smiles as he literally leaps to his feet and gasps, “Lemme get my toolbox!” as he disappears down into the basement. He struggles to carry the plastic toolbox up the stairs but he’s determined. We meet in the bathroom and begin the extraction and replacement of the new seat.
Truth be told, it is the simplest of honey-dos; a few twists of the screws and you’re done. I show him how to do it and give him one of my screwdrivers. There we kneel side by side for a few minutes reciting ‘righty-tighty lefty-loosey’ and admonishing a few “Don’t touch the bowl! It’s dirty!”s.
We finish all three toilets in ten minutes, but it isn’t enough. The joy of turning screws creates a hunger inside of him. “Your truck is broken!” he announces as he strains against the door to the garage.
It isn’t broken, but I can’t help myself. He helps me clean the floormats and the flotsam of empty coffee cups and Happy Meal cartons floating about the cab. We vacuum up an endless supply of loose popcorn and goldfish and wipe down the interior before heading to the engine.
He’s light enough to be able to stand on the cowling over the radiator in his brightly colored socks, one hand on the opened hood. I point out the alternator and the intake manifold, and he holds a plastic hammer and starts to lightly tap the engine’s components. He’s desperate to fix something. I pull out the dipstick, clean it and we check the oil. “Hmm,” he says. Then he giggles to himself.
We cheers our juice boxes over a job well done, and in true husband fashion I text my wife to list our accomplishments. “Don’t forget to rest!” she replies.
I consider her advice as I eye the couch and discarded car magazine on the floor.
Nah. I think I hear a leaky faucet somewhere. And I know just the guy to do the job.
Owner of Spowerks LLC