Dusting my shelf.

I started trying to hang the shelf at around 3PM. One shelf. One, single utility closet shelf. Six feet long. 16 inches deep.

I had my hammer. I had my electric drill. I had a screwdriver, a level, a box of anchor screws, wood glue, a hand saw and a really bad attitude. Approximately fourteen holes, three trips to Home Depot and three excrutiating hours later, my little “addition” had become a remodeling project.

I cussed a lot. Check that… I cussed so much, I made up cuss words. I sweat a lot. I cussed some more. Hit my thumb with an errant swing of the aforementioned hammer. Cussed. Threw the hammer. Hit my foot. Cussed. Cried. Sweat some more. Punched the wall. Repaired the wall where I punched it. And then quit.

And cussed.

My two-year-old daughter watched the whole thing. She saw me get mad, heard me say things not even suitable for late night Cinemax and she even laughed when I hopped up and down in frustrated pain.

She had longed for a night of dress-up with Daddy. We were supposed to play “Judy and da Beast.” Instead, she endured an evening with Mr. Hyde. She needed some alone-time with her favorite hide-and-seek partner. What she got was “get out of the tub, pick out a movie to watch before bed and don’t bother me… I’m tired.”

I cut story time short because of a shelf. We didn’t brush her teeth because I didn’t have the patience to wipe spittle from the bathroom counter… because of a shelf. I put her to bed early because I needed to get back to the laundry room. To the shelf. And when I told her we weren’t going to say prayers tonight, because Daddy has things he has to do, do you know what my little girl said?

She said, “It’s dust a shelf, Daddy. It’ll be OK.”

Dust a shelf, indeed.

Here’s hoping you spend your day today only cussing about the really important things…

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