Simian Farmer

Last holiday of the year, day five

I finally got around to sketching up The Dawg House mid-morning on Wednesday with intentions to exercise my God-given manly right to engage power tools like I actually know what the hell I'm doing with them.

After the sketch though, everything went to shit.

Declan went down for his nap and I repaired to the patio to set up a couple saw horses and a sheet of plywood as a working table.  Two cuts into my jigsaw Amy came out the door, babe in hand, to let me know that Declan refused to go to sleep.

"Every time you start the saw he says, 'Vacuum!' and won't go back to bed."

So I huffily put my shit down and wordlessly placed the recalcitrant toddler back in bed with a cursory "night-night, Dex" while Amy went to the mall with little T.  Declan bawled standing inside his bedroom door, knowing he wasn't allowed to cross the barrier, so instead placed his hopes on increasingly plaintive wails finding their way to the inner most recesses of my hardened heart.  By the time the sounds escalated to where Declan was being forced to watch his Tigger doll decapitated, drawn and quartered in front of his own eyes propped open by toothpicks, I finally relented.

I rescued the boy from his self-imposed torture, wiped his snot and tears and forced him to have a nap with me on the living room sofa.  Amy came home with the baby and took pictures of us.

I thought I had my chance after supper and again took tool to spruce.  Again the unholy howling of a dour Dex interjected most rudely.  He wanted to - had to! - come play outside.  So I lobbed the boy in the wagon and we trundled to the 7-11.  Dad for a big coffee and a Big Turk, Boychild for some Crispers.

Finally, after two baths and two bedtimes, I moved my shit into the garage, shut the doors and made sure to measure twice and cut once.  I did that many times.  At the end I was left with a delightful array of geometric shapes which, on the morrow, will be hustled together into some semblance of a residence fit for a dog.  Probably two.

And I'll take before and after pictures.  It's after midnight and I need to go to bed so I can do it all again tomorrow.

Meanwhile, here are a couple pics from recent days:

Last holiday of the year, day four

I took four holiday days to extend my Labour Day long weekend to a labour week.

So far, it's been quite literal.

My big plan for the time off work was to envision, plot, procure materials and borrow tools for the construction of a dog house for our two rambunctious puppies.  Hell, I even bought a bundle of roof shingles to do it up right.  I may still be thrashing madly in the throes of a love-hate relationship with the four-legged members of this house, but if I'm going to build them a shelter for those times they get booted out of doors and are forced to survive in the increasingly savage and unkempt wild that is our backyard, they sure as heck aren't going to get wet or blown away while on my watch.

I'm even planning trusses for the roof.  My mind, being the way it is, has also come up with the one-liners I can use on my wife when I come in from my manly toil.  Gems like: "Man!  I sure did a lot of screwing this afternoon!"  or  "I came in for a glass of water because I was so board."  or  "Baby, it ain't just two by fours that are getting nailed today."  Sometimes we love each other in spite of the rest of the personality that comes with the good stuff.  My wife and I are both thankful for that.

Amy, the doll, is also ecstatic that I'm on holidays.  Another pair of hands.  Between seven AM and nine PM I find myself in possession of one or both of our sons and my wife is glimpsed out of the corner of my eye as she languishes on a dais, fanned by svelte pool boys and hand-fed peeled grapes by Orlando Bloom look-alikes.  She's enjoying the domestic tag-team.

This time off has obviously resulted in less time available to spend frittering away on the computer.  (Not sure what that says about my computer habits while actually at work, so I won't get terribly introspective about it.)  I feel guilty taking five minutes to check my inbox while I rush to the basement to change loads in the laundry.  Which brings to mind Tavish.

Holy SHIT can that boy puke!  I've mentioned it in passing here before, and Declan was much the same at the same age, but I can't put into words the juxtaposition of marvel and frustration that is engendered by the younger son's ability to regurgitate so much of what he's fed.  THIRTY to FORTY times per day.  The laundry alone is nearing insurmountable, never mind the agreed-upon silence my wife and I share at the perfunctory cleaning of carpet and upholstery.  (Free stock tip: invest in Febreze.)  Suffice to way we've taken to turning a blind eye when an audible splatter on the hardwood is accompanied by the now Pavlovian clacking of dogs' toe nails.  One less for us to clean up.  I don't know how much lower we can sink.

If I can scrounge the time, I'll update again this week and perhaps post a photo if I manage to turn my good intentions to something more tangible.