Some Assembly Required

“They say it should only take a day to put together.” Those were my wife's words after she returned with the bunk bed.

There are two things wrong with that sentence. Who are they? And what kind of sadistic engineer would design something that would take an entire day to assemble? What kind of mother would torture her eight year-old son with a brand new bunk bed when there was no chance it would be ready that day? (I have a feeling this will weigh heavily against her when it comes time to put her into a home. I'll already be in a home from sled riding, bunk bed building and falling down stairs.)

So, three large boxes were in the back of her minivan. My son had somehow cracked the code, “Your son's bunk b. is here.” After working to three AM, all I wanted was coffee. Somehow, my mumbled growl was interpreted as, “Of course, dear, I'll happily lug all three boxes up two flights of stairs and get started right away putting it together. Why don't you leave our two spawn here to help me while you go shopping in peace.”

“I want a bunk bed for MY birthday.” My daughter, almost-five-years-old-going-on-30, has no business being able to pack that much persecuted guilt in such a short sentence. Her lower lip quivered with just the right amount of emotion. A tear even threatened to slide down her cheek.

Luckily, I'd had enough coffee so my answer was censured into another mumble.

“Is the box heavy, dad?” My son asked that as I inched the first box up the steps.

“No, my back usually makes these popping sounds.”

Apparently, my sarcasm was lost on him as he suggested I use my legs more.

Once I had the two main boxes up to his room, my two helpers were all ready for me to start. We did the normal safety lecture. “No touching the sharp tools. Be careful with the heavy pieces. If you don't understand the word(s) daddy yells, don't tell mom. If you do understand the word(s) daddy yells, make sure she knows you didn't learned them from me.” I got two sets of grave nods that they understood the rules and would obey them to the best of their ability, or until they forgot, whichever came first.

Now, at five and eight, my kids have normal attention spans (3 minutes, unless a cartoon character is being splattered, then its measured in hours.), so I figured my next step would buy me at least another cup of coffee. “Let's find the directions.” Anything that required 2 boxes that could easily hold a small car, had to require a serious collection of tools. The directions were quickly located. I knew it was going to be a long afternoon when I saw that the directions were only a few pages long. My daughter proudly displayed the bags of bolts and screws.

“Now we're cooking,” my son rubbed his hands together like a mad scientist.

“I still need to get all the tools together to build it,” I reminded him. I might even be able to squeeze a nap out of that. There was space under the workbench and a box of nails that would work as a pillow in a pinch.

“These tools?” My son held up one of the packages. There was wrench and two allen wrenches.

“I'm sure we'll need more tools.” All right, there might have been a hint of desperation in my voice.

“No. It says this is all you need,” he said as he read the directions spread out on the floor in front of him.

When I was growing up, there were certain things you count on public education for. (Besides ending a sentence with a preposition.) We didn't know geography, math was iffy and I'm pretty sure reading was frowned upon. Starting on Monday, I am putting him in a private school.

In fairly short order, including three words they had better never use around their mother (For the direction makers out there, when it's vitally important which side goes down on the first piece, but that vitality won't be apparent until several hundred bolts later, you might want to STRESS that.) the bunk bed was together and in place. One hernia later, his mattress (His mother had decided that he needed a special mattress a year or two ago. I think it was made with lead.) was up on the top bunk and all was ready.

He and his sister made several trips up and down the ladder and pronounced my work satisfactory. (In case you are wondering, I was fully aware that the one day to put together comment was an outright manipulation. But it makes her feel like she's helping...)

That night, we read his stories in the lower bunk. The interesting thing is, after lugging the boxes up to his room and lifting his mattress up, my back was in the perfect permanent curve to get into the top bunk, I just didn't think I'd be able to move once there. After finishing his books, my son, the fruit of my loins, climbed to his top bunk, gather his pillows and blankets and dropped them over the edge. While I watched, he climbed back down.

“What are you doing?” I finally asked as he picked up his pillows.

“I'm going to sleep down here.”

“You're not going to sleep on the top bunk?”

“I'll sleep on the top bunk on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

While I'm pretty sure public education gave me some ideas on how to drive my parents crazy, I know they didn't teach Rationalizing Logic until I was at least in junior high school.