Moving Rooms

For reasons that are not clear to me now; we swapped rooms with the Noodle today. We also moved the Ikea toy cupboard to the sunroom; the (Ikea) computer unit from the sunroom to our bedroom; the Ikea bookshelf from the east wing (aka Patrick's cell/entrance hall) to Noodle's room and the old lounge from the sunroom to the shed. That was the first time the lounge had been moved since it came off the ark.

I had to pull apart and reassemble two beds and a cot and make a trip to the hardware store and we still managed a visit to friends' for dinner ce soir. I'm very tired.

If the reason for the shift has been lost in a haze of sweat, swearing and wonder at how the Noodle managed to materialise in the centre of every clear spot in which I was about to deposit something heavy - something else has become very clear to me. We have reached possession saturation point and shall purchase no more. The children shall have no more toys and items of clothing will only be signed off on if the tattered remains of the predecessor can be produced in tandem with a department of health certificate authenticating that the item is indeed unfit for the survival needs of a human.

I have spoken.

(Though I've not yet checked with my wife)

Men At Work

I write this quickly now prior to fleeing with the Noodle (as soon as he wakes) to the relative sanctuary of my Dad's house before Knickers returns from a pre-baby girls' weekend away.

She has only been gone since yesterday afternoon but the house is already a disaster. Dirty mugs are scattered throughout the house. They sit piled up with tools, DVDs, volumes of poetry, novels, graphic novels, text-books, dirty dishes, dirty washing and clean washing. The Noodle has gotten into the whole while the cat's away spirit and added scatterings of picture books, bottles, bibs and boots. The hounds have been allowed up on the, normally, verboten couch and contributed the lion's share of fur (that is, enough to make a lion out of) which must now be thoroughly vacuumed.

It's not that I haven't been cleaning, its just that I've started seventeen different projects and completed none. The beginning stage of most projects involve getting everything out and ready, having a cuppa and slice of toast to consider where to begin, deciding it's all too hard and moving on to something else. Of course before commencing the next I would need a palate cleansing romp with the Noodle or lie down with a book, depending on his desire and/or availability.

One of the tasks, assigned by Knickers prior to her departure, is to assemble the new linen cupboard. She is deep in a very large nesting frenzy. Larger than the house actually. This is causing me all sorts of headaches as I try to explain that we don't live in the Tardis and I 'cannae change the laws o' physics.'

Knickers despises science fiction and is suitably unmoved by my protestations.

So, back to our new and expensive linen cupboard. The Noodle and I put the frame together, realised the shelves were on backwards and took it apart. Back together again and decided it would be more stable with the top shelf a bit higher. Took it apart again. Adjusted. Reassembled. Nailed on the thin backing. Refer photo below.
I'm now in a bit of a bind. Sure I can blame the Noodle. After all he did bang a few nails in. I just don't think admitting I let our nearly two year old son let fly with a hammer, in the close confines of the house, is the best strategy to deflect attention away from the topic of my irresponsibility.
It would explain the dents and chips caused by some of his wilder swings. Again though, Knickers is much more likely to dock my pocket money rather than his. Oh for a baby face, what havoc I could wreak!

No. Best to keep shtum while she gets over the initial outrage and be convicted of incompetence rather than incompetence and irresponsibility.

Now I just have to convince the Noodle not to walk around saying, 'Noodle hammer. Very helpful.'

Measure Twice, Bugger It Up, Scream and Kick Something

AIM

Crib the WUO (Today's gut feeling: girl) in the front room until s/he is sleeping through the night, then, throw them to the Noodle. We're sure he'll cope really, really well with sharing.

I'm sitting in the front room now. It measures 2 x 2.5m, and contains the computer, doors to our bedroom and the front yard, a round window and a doorway to the lounge. Obviously we'd move the computer. Can't have a baby screaming in my ear while I'm trying to study.

Though it's not all bad. One clear advantage of storing a child by the front door would be that if a mad dingo pack chewed their way in they'd be temporarily distracted by the baby, giving us enough time to bail out the window and make a run for it.



METHOD

Today I attempted to add another door to the doorway. That way the WUO won't be exposed to the Big Brother Final Eviction in her/his first few weeks of life. A neighbour three houses down left some doors out on the road a few weeks ago. I scurried down like a rat under the cover of darkness and liberated one. I hope no-one saw me in my shame.

Luckily it was 40mm too short. Lucky because the universe would implode if something just worked out nicely. I measured carefully and went and purchased a length of timber - same width as the door and 35mm thick - some new hinges and some screws. I cut the timber to length and spent a fair bit of time screwing it to the bottom of the door.

What I hadn't measured was the other side of the door frame. It happens to be about 20mm shorter. This made my extended door 15mm too tall. Fine, whatever, I'll just trim it down.

I unscrewed the timber, put it in the vise, marked it and attempted to trim it with a circular saw. The saw jagged and the timber split.


RESULT

I unplugged the saw and placed it gently down. Then I kicked the shed wall. It made a very satisfying thump. I swore a bit and thought about kicking the saw. Decided against it. Thought a little longer about kicking one of the hounds, but they'd scarpered. No fools those dogs.


CONCLUSION

DIY is for fools. Stay in school, earn more money. Employ someone competent to do it.

Dead Grandpas Under the Floor Boards

(Note attractive Oof dangling from mouth)

We've got creaking floorboards right next to my side of the bed and outside the Noodle's bedroom. So when I fumble my way to the dunny twice a night I perform a bizarre and ungainly ballet in an attempt to not wake my slumbering family.

Sort of a two step, twist, dodge sideways, smack into open cupboard door, curse loudly, tread on friggen board anyway, give up and stomp to toilet with everyone now wide awake and cursing me.

It has reached crisis point and rather than see a doctor and/or cut down on caffeine the Noodle and I went to the hardware store yesterday (Home on Goody Rd - really helpful/knowledgeable staff). I was very prepared to start banging nails into stuff.

'Talcum powder,' said the bloke.
'Talcum powder?'
'Yep, works its way in and stops most squeaks no worries.'
'Not a nail gun and oxyacetylene welder then?'
'Nope. Talcs what you need hey Doug.'
'Yep, Talcum powder alright.'
'Talcum powder,' concurred some wandering, shifty, bloke in a bomber jacket.

So denied the opportunity to buy myself something cool we went to Woolies and purchased a canister of Imperial Leather and $20 worth of coffee (irony didn't escape me) as I didn't have any cash on me and needed to use the credit card.

Spent an hour sweeping the talc into the gaps with the result that the squeaks are moderately reduced and the house smells like an old folks home.

Helping

The Noodle helped me finish fixing the dog door this morning, dangerous saboteur/assassin that he is.

He started by upending the packet of nuts and bolts then, having both focused my attention elsewhere and lured me into wind up range, cracking me in the head with a spanner while I scrabbled on the ground for the detritus.

He then had a right tanty when I removed the wood glue from his clutches, knocking the drill onto the concrete and snapping the 2mm bit in the process.

We finished up our little bonding experience in separate areas of the house. One of us re-attaching the, hopefully, repaired dog door in the glaring sun and muttering a few choice comments that were barely choked down earlier; the other looking on from the air-conditioned comfort of the back room, screaming and bashing at the window frame with a pair of pliers.

In years to come, in the unlikely concurrence of us still residing here and the repairs lasting, I'll be able to point at the dog door and say to the Noodle, 'See that. You helped me fix that.'

Which would be nice.

Bang Bang

Vacuumed the car today, and the lounge. Then mowed the lawn, trimmed the edges and hung the washing out. Replaced two washers for the outside taps. Took the hounds for their walk, worked out and attempted to repair the dog door.

Amazing how much you can achieve in a day, simply by putting it aside to study.

Bit the bullet this afternoon and opened Educational Psychology: Your Descent Into Madness at the same time as the Noodle opened up his artistic side and began pounding on his Magnadoodle with one of the magnet shapes.

'...provides stimulus for the study of learning meta strategies, the teaching of cognitive strategies in the context of performance on academic...'

BANG BANG BANG!

'...teaching BANG of BANG cognitive BANG strategies BANG in BANG the BANG context BANG...'

'Noodle, dad is trying to concentrate, just bang softly.'

BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG

'Pelican.'

BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG

'Knickers!' I appealed for parental intervention.

'Leave him alone, he's playing quietly.'

BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG....

They'll both be sorry when we're out on the street.

Diying for the Fans - Big Shout out to Baz

Dad has never been much of a handyman, maybe he reckons you don't have to be if you can afford to pay for someone to fix something. Always struck me as odd though, being that he grew up on a farm in western NSW.
Granddad taught him to fight and drink and ride horses and maybe that was enough. It has certainly seen him through. Not so much the horses...or the drinking.
Anyway there were projects, usually gardening, that Dad embarked upon and his sons were duly dragged out of the house to help on Saturday afternoons, away from books or old western matinées in which Indians were still the bad guys.
With Dad there is only one way to do anything, his way (didn't see that coming did you), so our helping usually only took a minute. I'm sure he resolved to control himself, but he could only stand to watch us hacking wildly with a splitter, circling the wrong way with the mower or not putting our back into the mattock for a few seconds before hustling in to 'just show' us how to do it properly.
His just showing usually ended with him finishing the task with Ben and I relegated to support crew, standing bored and idle and wondering if he'd notice if we slipped away back to the cool of the house.
So I didn't leave home with a swag of tips that would make any of the nutters from The Block sick with envy. Or just sick if there were any justice.
Since owning a (massive debt on a small) home I've attempted to remedy this, undertaking tasks around the house, purchasing tools as and when required and slowly building up to the 'finding arse with one hand' category.
Electrickery, however, remains an enigma. Enter my long-suffering brother-in-law Baz. While not technically an electrician I can confidently state, without any hyperbole, that; there is nothing this man cannot do!
He spent over half the day here today; swearing, muttering to himself, overcoming all obstacles and installing three fans for us. I took on the important and familiar role of holding the ladder and passing things.

Thanks Barry, from a grateful nation.