THIRTY
Mr. Whiskers, Destroyer of the Present, Past, and Future
Arthur - 37 Weeks
When my alarm goesoff at seven thirty on Sunday morning, I am nowhere near ready to wake up, having been kept awake by my wife's snoring again for the better part of the night. To be honest, I’m in a shit mood myself. I hate to complain, but my life has become a hamster wheel of handling mounds of work, tiptoeing around my wife all evening, then listening to her snore all night.
I roll out of bed and throw on some jeans and a T-shirt, then make my way to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. I then read over the instructions for the crib whilst I eat some toast. Tessa is still fast asleep, which I suppose is a good thing, given her mood this weekend. I wouldn’t mind if she slept right through until she goes into labour, and I’m pretty sure she’d agree with me on that one, even though there is no fucking way I’d ever say it to her.
Dexter gets up and joins me in the kitchen, staring up at my plate hopefully.
“All right, Dex, I'll make you some toast, but don't tell anyone. The vet said you're supposed to be off carbs for a while.”
By the time the two of us have eaten, I'm thoroughly confused by the crib instructions and find myself searching for how-to videos on YouTube, none of which seem to be very useful, as nobody has recorded themselves building the exact model and make of crib I'm faced with. As far as I can tell, my wife has purchased the most complicated crib on the planet to assemble. I'm pretty sure it has to do with the fact that it turns into a toddler bed and then later a double bed, and not at all because I have no building experience.
After an hour of watching videos, I walk down the hall to the nursery to get started. I glance out the window to see it's a gray, snowy day outside. A perfect day to spend in bed, but not for me. Dexter, who followed me in here, lays down in the corner of the room and stares at me.
"You don't think I can do this, do you?" I ask. "But I can, and I will. There is no way these poorly written instructions are going to foil my efforts. This is simply a matter of engaging my common sense and my physical dexterity. Mark my words—by lunchtime, these cribs will be done.”
I set to work, whistling the theme toIndiana Jonesbecause not unlike Indy, I’m a very manly man who can use a drill and hammer and fight treasure-stealing Nazis...well, probably. I guess I’ll find out (not about the Nazi-fighting, the tool management thing). And yes, I know this isn’t running the Iron Man or something, but there's a strange feeling of pride associated with the ability to build something with your own two hands that your children will then benefit from.
If I'm really honest, I would say that completing this task alone will serve as proof that I will indeed be a much more involved father than the one who raised me. Not to mention, I'll be able to prove to my father-in-law that I'm not completely useless when it comes to construction.
Within a few minutes, I have all the parts of the crib laid out in front of me in neat piles exactly as they are pictured in the instruction booklet. "Well, we've got all the right parts, Dex, so that's a good sign, wouldn’t you say?"
"I'd say it's a good sign," Tessa says giving me a hint of a smile, which is the closest thing to anything resembling happiness from her in days.
“Good morning. How did you sleep?" I ask, glancing up at her and then sifting through the baggie of screws to select the length I need.
"About as horrible as every other night for the past month." Tessa sighs, then walks into the room and peers down at the progress I haven't made. "You sure you don't want some help?"
"Wouldn't dream of it. Besides, you're supposed to be resting."
She walks over to the rocker and sits down with a small groan. "I didn't mean me. My father would really like to help. Or perhaps Xavier or Ollie knows how to build cribs..."
I stiffen slightly at the notion that I require assistance, then say, "I've got it, thanks."
"No need to get defensive about it."
"I'm not defensive. I'm just sick of everyone thinking I can't do this."
"Well, it's been two hours since you got up, and all you've done so far is take everything out of the box."
"I didn't know I was on a deadline."
"I thought maybe we could spend some time together today once you finish."
"Well, in that case, perhaps you should let me get this done and stop distracting me."
"Fine,” she says in that tone that means none of this is fine and I'm going to pay for my snippy comment later. She struggles to get out of the rocker, then makes a little huffing sound and does her best to stride out of the room quickly. "I'm going back to bed."
"Have a great sleep."
Two hours later, my stomach is starting to growl and I'm realizing it's rather difficult to build something like this without having an extra set of hands to at least hold things whilst you screw them into place. I tried getting Dexter to help, but as smart as he is, he’s also lazy and lacks opposable thumbs.
Speaking of thumbs, I'm pretty sure I'm going to lose the nail on my left thumb, having smashed it with a hammer about forty-five minutes ago. It's now wrapped so I don't get blood all over the carpet in here. I'm sure that wouldn't go over well. I abandoned whistling a long time ago and am starting to feel the slightest bit of regret that I’ve been so insistent on going this alone.
My phone buzzes, and I pick it up off the change table, then swipe the screen. It's a message from Arabella.That awful cat of Evi and Ruben's has managed to get into the throne room. You may want to see it for yourself. Or not.
