The kitchen island was delivered a few days ago and it’s been sitting in the craft room waiting for paint because we had it built and I’m not paying them an additional $150 to paint it white when I can do it myself for free. I am just getting over a pretty bad head cold, so despite the excitement we have not yet seen the layout of the kitchen past the rectangle of tape on the floor. We’ve learned the hard way to measure carefully. Several times.
So last night, about 10 PM, we have the following conversation:
“So… How are you feeling right this minute?” Dewie doesn’t actually look at me as she asks. Apparently looking at the opposite wall makes this question seem nonchalant.
“A little tired. Not too bad, though.”
“I sure would like to see how that island looks in the kitchen.”
“Yeah, me too. But in order to place the island, what has to happen?”
“We have to move the table.” She sighs and looks at a different wall.
“Correct. And in order to move the table, what has to happen?”
“We have to move the shelves.”
“Right again. And where are we going to put the shelves?”
“In the office.”
“You’re on a roll. Now if we’re going to put the shelves in the office, what has to happen?”
“We have to move the broken shelves." Now she’s rolling her eyes at the ceiling.
“You are very, very smart. So in order to move the island, what do we have to do first?”
“Move the broken shelves.”
“Yep. Are the broken shelves on the curb?”
“Nope.” She sighs dramatically and drops her head back on the couch. She curls her toes around the edge of the coffee table and rocks it back and forth. Suddenly she brightens and turns her head to look at me. “You know I really would like to see what that island looks like in the kitchen.” Resistance is futile. If I don’t help her, she will try to do it herself.
“Alright, but I’m doing this under duress and you’re accepting full responsibility for the consequences.”
“YAYYYYY!!!”
So we push the island into the kitchen, move the table and attempt to empty the shelves. The kitchen basically looks like it has a severe case of diarrhea. As we lie in bed, waiting for sleep, Dewie asks, “Why didn’t you stop me?”
“I tried.”
“I’ll get up really early and have it all put away before you wake up.”
“No you won’t. You’ll go in there, move three things then come into the bedroom with an armful of colorful bowls, poke me awake and ask, ‘Where do you want to put these?’ and it will go on and on until I get up and help you.”
“Yeah probably. So you’ll help me tomorrow?”
Sigh. “Of course.”
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