I don’t get dudes.
My wonderfully rugged and manly husband just appeared in the backyard with a wheelbarrow full of tools and a load mysteriously-sourced lumber–the kind that has a number for a name (two by something).
I’m scared. Also, I was unaware that we owned a wheelbarrow. That’s a fun surprise.
Not only will he not tell me what he’s building, there seems to be an excessive amount of electric sawing and use of the nail gun. What is it with boys? It’s as if they are only happy if they’re engaging in an activity in which they can either:
-Make a mess
-Annoy their wife
-Produce lots of noise
So far, I have been helpful by sitting nearby and periodically raising an eyebrow and/or provide comments such as:
“Is it crooked on purpose?” “What is it?”, and “If it’s hideous, we can throw it away, right?”
While I thought these were well-phrased and appropriate inquiries, I have thus far only been met with vague responses and grunts. There has also been a great deal of bending and measuring; fortunately the butt crack itself has not yet made an appearance. In an attempt to assist, our three year-old twins have been marching around the yard waving toolbox accessories probably not meant for toddlers and having conversations with my husband as follows:
Child: “Is this wood?”
Child: “What’s it for? Why is it big? Is this wood too? Is it heavy? Why is it heavy? Where did you get it? Was it in the garage? Did you go to the wood store? Can we go to the store? Can we get candy? I want candy. Can I have a lollypop? What are you doing?”
Daddy: “I’m making something.”
Child: “Is this a tool? Can I see it? What does this tool do? Why is it loud? Can I touch it? Can I hold the orange tool? Can I climb on that? Can I have that? Will you get me juice?”
Daddy: “Please go play by Mommy.”
Child: “Can I throw this? Why is that sharp? Is it brown? What are you doing? I have to go potty.”
It’s just so awesome.
Of course the wife’s dilemma is now that through the unspoken laws of marriage I am required to love whatever this wood-based item ends up becoming, as he has crafted it with his own two hands and spent at least an hour on it.
Also, there is the residual bonus of the fact that watching one’s husband get all sweaty and dirty being all manly with tools is preferrable to watching him, say, roll up the newspaper and head into the bathroom.
I’ll bet he smells all sawdusty. Mmm.