The Eichenblog

It is with great pride that I announce the completion of a woodworking project.  I am proud of myself, not for the quality of craftsmanship, but for the completion of the project in a timely manner.

Normally it takes me years to finish a project.  One so large as this might take several years.

Not this time.

The sanding and finishing of this project was done in many small phases, so no daunting shadow ever passed before me.  The first, small pieces finished about a month ago.  Their quality and beauty kept me motivated, driven to see the final product.

The last month I have parked my truck outside, using the space of the garage to do my finishing.  It took time.  One coat of varnish and three coats of polyurethane took at least four days, usually closer to a week.  Things dry and set slowly in the cold.

But the project was a success.

I now have a table which folds down into a nicely contained coffee table.  On Wednesdays it can fold out into a fully functional gaming table.

I have to admit it is a little wobbly in fully extended mode.  It is the price I pay for versatility.  The wobblyness isn’t bad enough to cause problems, but I suspect it will always annoy me.

Folded up, it is as solid as a rock.  It supports feet just as well as I would expect a good coffee table to.

And….

Pictures.

First of all, I think it is important to mention that I never doubted this day would come.

Isaac loves me again.

And I have proof.

Until just recently, he has been insisting that he only loves me when I do projects.  I’m not sure why, that’s just how it’s been.

I don’t blame him.  I’m usually pretty mean, really.

Then one day we realized something.  I’m always doing projects.

Therefore, he always loves me.

So, the day after we made this realization I came home to find him extremely exited about an art project he made for me.

He called it his Loving Pictures.

I do like having these amazing, abstract creations of his.  The use of color, contrast, and googly eyes really shows some artistic potential.

I also like that he wrote my name on each picture, just to show that the picture is for me.

Let it be noted that his handwriting has now officially surpassed my own.

Isaac learned syllables on the way to church this morning.

Don’t ask me how the topic came up.  I was driving.

At first he didn’t get it.  How do these words get broken down?  Why are we doing this.

About ten minutes into the fifteen minute drive I heard it click. Suddenly it was a game.

“How many syllables are in Gabriel?”  We asked.

Isaac claps one-two-three as the intones his brother’s name.

“Three!”

This went on for the rest of the trip.

On the way home we managed to confuse him.

“Cat is one syllable, how many are in ‘cats’?”

“Two,” says Isaac confidently.  “Cat and s.”

It took the entire rest of the car ride to convince him that adding an ’s’ doesn’t actually add a syllable.  Neither Carol nor I could really come up with a good reason why.

We try not to push him too hard, but we know what we want to teach Isaac next.

Haiku.

“You did it!”

This is the best $10 spent at IKEA ever.

Gabe flips the toy over.  It features ten colored pegs.  A small wooden hammer is used to pound each peg to the other side.  One by one he pounds them down.

He really is good at it.  Rarely does he miss a peg.

“You did it!”  Gabe exclaims this every time.  Usually, I repeat it with equal enthusiasm.  I like him to know that I care.

Once.  Once today I was preoccupied.  I had been dulled into sleepiness by the junior novellization of the Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs movie. Isaac loves the book, and apart from its mind-numbing prose I think it’s a decent way to spend time with him on a Sunday afternoon.

“You did it!”

I fail to respond.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Gabe stand, step forward, and throw.

I suppose I had it coming.  Gabe’s celebratory hammer throw caught me right on the cheek.

It hurt.

It is really hard to scold a kid who is so very proud of himself.

And he should be proud.

It was a good throw.

Betrayal and disgust.

These are the words that come to mind when I think about how he looked at me.

At first words failed him.  The disgust occupied his tongue.  Pure revulsion prevented him from putting to words the hatred that he felt.

He should have seen it coming.  Every night it is the same dance.  The same assault is made, typically with the same results, and though tonight had been different, it should not have been unexpected.

His voice, weak, wavering: “Yucky.”

Slowly he began the long chore of picking each offending morsel from the plate.  This substance would be tolerated on the table, but not on the plate.  No, not on the plate.

Corn, the yellow vegetable of my victory.  It may not be the most nutritious of vegetables, but it counts.

I made griddle cakes, filled with whole bits of corn.

Gabe ate one, and was starting his second when he made that vile discovery.

He had been tricked.

That bitter taste which repulsed him so, it was not the corn.

It was defeat.

Finally, a defeat.