It’s funny, motherhood. The things it will make you do. And buy. And endure. The lengths to which you will go to keep your children happy. If I didn’t love her so much I’d barf. Or cry. One of the two.
This past week I was home sick with a stomach bug (yay, daycare). By Friday, I was so frantic with cabin fever I launched into a flurry of domestic activity: shovelling the driveway, doing laundry, sweeping floors, emptying closets and paying bills. Oh, and drilling holes in the walls.
A little background about me: I’m a bit of a perfectionist. I set ridiculous standards for myself that I wouldn’t dream of imposing on anyone else. Once I get started on something, I can't stop until it's done. Right. PERFECTLY. On Christmas Eve, for example, I woke up at 3 am in a panic because I had forgotten about the puzzle I wanted to make for Doodle. I stayed up another two hours, desperately colouring in the hand-drawn Mechana-Mouse I had sketched in a comatose state, just to hear that the squeal of delight when she opened it later that morning.
I wanted to give her something to pass the time until our vacation. Since she loved her advent calendar so much, I thought a “countdown calendar” would be a big hit. Another marathon until the wee hours of the morning, bleary-eyed and in no condition to be handling an Exacto knife. But there I was, because I love her that much. Now, every morning, the first thing she asks is, “can we open another door today?” My work here is done.
Tonight was another case in point: her dresser—a rather unsteady piece of furniture built with love and fixed about three thousand times—needed to be attached to the wall so it wouldn’t fall over. Fighting through nausea and cold sweats, I armed myself with brackets and the cordless drill. I could do this, I would do this, because I adore my child. Because it had to be done RIGHT NOW. Because tonight would be the night she'd try to use the drawers as a ladder and I would spent the rest of my life living with the guilt. I eyeballed the positioning, marked the wall, and fitted those brackets lickety-split. Too bad I didn’t measure anything before bringing in the power tools.
Suffice to say, we’re never going to move. That dresser was on its last leg ages ago; now, it wouldn’t survive a stiff breeze, let alone relocation. Also, it covers the Swiss cheese job I made of the drywall quite nicely. But it was worth it. I get to be worshipped by my awe-struck daughter, and she is safe, once again, from imminent doom. All in a day's work.