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Dear Sariah, you totally owe me…

August 31, 2007

Dear Sariah,

Over the course of three days last weekend, I assembled, piece by grueling piece, your bedroom furniture set. Second only to the La Lakers practically gift-wrapping Shaquille O’Neal to the Miami Heat, this will likely rank as one of the greatest acts of charity in the last decade, nay, century.

Because of this singular act of kindness, I have surreptitiously claimed the right to make totally unfair rulings on things like: Your clothes, your friends, your boyfriends, your college, your hobbies and your music collection. You see Sariah, I have the trump card. I envision some future conversation going like this:

You: “But Dad, Spike is a totally cool guy and he’s like, the most handsomest guy in school and he wants me to go to prom with him on the back of his motorcycle!”
Me: “I said no — and need I remind you that we are coming up on the 15th anniversary of the weekend I spent putting your baby furniture together? Make sure you are here for the traditional moment of silence followed by ‘The burning of the instructions'”
You: “Yes Father, I had forgotten about your great sacrifice and labor on my behalf. I will now quietly submit to your will.”

I swell with pride even now thinking of how appreciative and obedient you will be. To ensure that you turn out this way, let me recount the events in all their terrible details. Try not to faint.

It all started on Saturday when we went to USA Baby to retrieve your furniture. We brought the trusty old Jeep and cleared out the back and folded down the seats to load up the box…es. That’s right, your furniture came in 5 different heavy boxes. These heavy boxes were carefully carried by TWO (2) full grown mover type men with back brace belts and gloves. After several minutes of puzzling, the TWO (2) full grown mover men finally got all the boxes in and we drove home, using enough gas to nearly declare an OPEC emergency.

Once home, I realized that I had not packed the TWO (2) full grown men into the car with me and consequently carried a heavy box myself, ONE (1) overgrown man, from the jeep, through the parking lot, up onto the sidewalk, through the hallway, into the front door, and finally into your bedroom. Four more times I labored in the scorching Temecula summer heat. Box after box.

Having gathered everything in the bedroom, I opened box one and pulled out the pieces with their accompanying instructions. “Instructions”… It slowly dawned on me that this was a misnomer. What the manufacturer clearly meant when they said “instructions” was “suggestions”. What I mean is, the first page contained child-like drawings of things like Cheez-its, a vase, two horses jumping, South Africa, The Iraq and like such as. These drawings were labeled A,B,C,D, etc… The labels were followed by “suggestions” like,

“Step one: Attach part A to Part B using Screw HH”

After looking at the drawing for part A and B, I went and got two cheez-its and screwed them into one of Cristina’s vases. Having completed the first task I went on to Step two. Things continued in this way until somehow, despite the best efforts of the manufacturer, I managed to assemble the first piece of your furniture. I stepped back to take in what marvelous wooden creation my labors had produced.

A changing table.

You can imagine my consternation. It was now nigh unto midnight, I had pored over wood, paper and metal. I had drilled and screwed (up) and cursed and sweat and cried and laughed and loved. I had been on a power drill pilgrimage. My reward was what? A 4 foot tall reminder of the fact that you will regularly fill your diapers with unimaginables and that I will have to assist you in disposing of said unimaginables. In exasperation I turned away from the accursed changing table but the landscape behind me, although different, was no less painful to behold.

Three more boxes of furniture.

I’ll not drag on through the rest of the details. Suffice it to say that you now have a sturdy changing table, dresser and crib. The room that used to be my office and Cristina’s craftroom is now Sariah-Land. Most importantly, the third weekend in August will always be a time of mourning in our home. A time when we silently remember the horrors we endured. A time when we will bring out a symbolic set of instructions and in a vengeful effigy, burn them. As the smoke wafts away, so will the pain. But one thing shall remain, your untempered desire to unfailingly obey my every word. You know, cause you feel pretty bad about what I had to go through just so I could change your diaper.

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2 comments

  1. I just wanted to let everyone know that there was no cusing, at least none that I heard. I am very grateful my hubby did this for Sariah. Although I think it would be more accurate to say that he did it for me…I love furniture.

    I will post a picture of the Nusery when we get things in order, so probably in a couple of weeks.


  2. This sounds familiar. About 2 weeks ago Brent had to put together the boys’ bunkbeds. Turned out to be quite the project… I think he started around 5 – and lets just say the boys didn’t get to sleep in their new beds until after 10 I think… But they loved them! (When they woke up in them the next morning that is… since they had both passed out on the couch downstairs in the meantime.)



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