Still on vacation. Still more old stuff. Still about home repair.
I admit, with no small amount of surrender in my voice, that I have been repairing our bathroom shower wall for the last three months. I am not proud of that fact. In a better sense, the shower and I have been locked in mortal struggle. It was just yesterday that we both managed to capitulate, with truly neither of us being the victor.
There is no longer a gaping hole in the wall, nor is there a large sheet of plastic covering that hole. This is my boon. However, no one will assume that Norm Abram stopped by with his bountiful knowledge of homes and repaired our wall. They may assume that we hired a contractor stricken with Parkinson’s. Probably because we like to support worthwhile causes; like the local chapter of Kitchen and Bath Contractors with Parkinson’s Local 254. This is what I am going to tell people.
But in all honesty, it was me. I did it. Fifteen trips to various home centers and hardware stores, stupid amounts of money spent on stupid tools that didn’t stupid work, a person without the proper skill or knowledge to merge 1930’s building materials with modern day materials, all things which did not come together to create the symphony of success that you might expect. At the end of it all, covered in mortar and grout and ceramic dust, I had pretty much given up. Frankly, as long as the kids didn’t have to go to their Aunt’s house to take a bath, I would be happy. Ok, maybe not happy, but sated.
This morning, lying in bed, I hear our 3-year-old go into the bathroom. I waited for her inevitable leap into our bed to rouse my wife and me with demands for food, or stickers or whatever it was we bribed her with to get her to sleep last night.
Just before the flush, I hear her call out “The tub looks good, Daddy”
This is my daughter, a three year old who has seen enough defeated looks on her father’s face over the past few months to know that it will please me more than anything for her to say something about my work. It does, very much.