How To Be A Good Example

My husband kicked a hole in the wall.  He morphed into the incredible hulk, ripped his t-shirt to threads, and just kicked the insulation right out of it.

The gutteral shouts of “Ggrrraaaahhhrgggg!” could be heard for miles.  It was an epic, wall-breaking moment.

FYI, it’s probably best if you don’t believe me.  Partly because I make stuff up.  Partly because Greg, while incredible, isn’t hulkish and never kicks stuff.  And partly because the hole is the size of a kiwi fruit.

Even more embarrassing for Greg than having the bloggy world think he’s a wall-kicker would be letting you think he has kiwi-sized feet.  Poor guy.

The truth is, we had a baby gate in this particular hallway spot for about three years.  And the gate weakened the wall.  And my husband took out the gate.  By tripping over it so that it busted through the wall.

I’m sure Greg’s super happy that I just mentioned his tripping-over-a-baby-gate episode to y’all.  So excuse me for a second while I talk to just him.  Remember how I cleared you of that horrible kiwi-sized feet rumor, Babe?  That’s ’cause I love you.  Keep that in mind.

Anyway, that was about six months ago now.  So that hole’s getting a little old.

But that’s OK, because it was also about six months ago that I busted the “bake” button on our oven.  You know the button that sets the temperature and allows you to actually use the oven?  Yeah.  That button.  I was just very enthusiastic one day about baking, so I guess I got a little over-zealous with the button-pushing.  Never fear, though.  The ice pick is working just fine for jamming in the missing-button hole and forcing the oven to start, so that’s not getting old at all.

Just didn’t want you to think that every broken thing bugs the heck out of me.

Because it doesn’t.

Like how the Tab key is stuck on this computer I’m using.  Doesn’t bother me a bit.  I can let that go right this     Tab     Tab     Tab     Tab     second.

You know what does bother me, though?

Two things.

Thing #1: THAT HOLE

It mocks me.  (Filthy baseboards are clearly not a problem, however.  Chalk another one up in the “Doesn’t Bug Me” column.  Yay!)

Thing #2: Girls who wait around to be rescued by wall-fixing men.  Seriously, Me.  Rescue thyself.  If the wall bugs you, fix it.  Don’t be a helpless damsel.  It’s SO very unattractive.  Easier.  But still unattractive.

And I thought… Gosh!  What kind of an example do I want to be to my kids about who women are?  About our capabilities?  About being go-getters?  About gettin’ stuff done?

I knew there was only one answer.

So I took matters into my own hands.

And I fixed that hole.

Yes, I did.

The kids were fascinated.

Geez, guys.  It’s like you’ve never seen Mommy fix anything.

The dog was fascinated.

Actually, he wasn’t fascinated.  He just wanted to take advantage of my floor-sitting position to crawl into my lap.  So I had to hold him still with my foot for a photo first.  Then he crawled in my lap.  That made fixing the wall extra easy.  He’s such a big helper.

But, even with all the help, I persisted.

And here it is.  My FIXED WALL!  Yee to the haw!

The final product:

Yep.  That took me a Sharpie marker, ten minutes, and a LOT of times saying, “I know we’re not supposed to draw on walls, but do what I say and not what I do.  K, kids?” Which I can tell is going to work out really, really well in the days to come.

See?

There’s a nonmischievous kid right there who’s TOTALLY gonna listen to his mama and keep the walls around here marker-free.

I can feel it in my bones.

It feels good – really good – setting the right kind of example for my kids.

 

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ABOUT BETH WOOLSEY I'm a writer. And a mess. And mouthy, brave, and strong. I believe we all belong to each other. I believe in the long way 'round. And I believe, always, in grace in the grime and wonder in the wild of a life lived off course from what was, once, a perfectly good plan.
10 comments
  1. […] tripped over the baby gate which punched a hole in the wall for him. He tells the story his way. I tell it mine. ¯_(ツ)_/¯ […]

  2. […] says we’re obligated to provide housing to the mouse just because we own a Mouse House in a low-rent district. I tried to explain the PLAGUE to her, but all she sees is Cute + Fuzzy + […]

  3. […] look around our houses with abiding gratitude. We may have toilets that clog with giant kid poos, holes in our walls and tantrum-prone kids, but we also know that the clogs, the holes and the tantrums mean that we […]

  4. […] it’s because our oven doesn’t heat on the first try… or because I’m still using an ice pick in place of a button to turn it […]

  5. Yes, I think the fact that you made a happy little “mouse house” sign clearly shows that you don’t really have mice. What I have learned the hard way is that the little critters don’t necessarily need a cute little kiwi-sized hole through which to gain access. And unlike Carina up there, dead mice make me a LOT happier than the living kind-nope, not sad at all. I actually devised a sure-kill method of dealing with them. I called myself Dr. Death. But that was our old house. The mouse-house.

    1. Yay! You made me so happy! I love it when I artfully deceive the public. (Don’t you like being “the public,” Cathie? ;))

      We’ve had mice at this very house. But not since our dear cat departed this world 4 years ago. Yeah – that seems backward, I know, since cats are supposed to rid a house of mice. Unfortunately, our cat liked to bring home “presents” from the nearby field. Birds. Bunnies. Mice. Except the mice were the WORST. She’d deliver them one of two ways. Way A: still living… this is how we ended up with a family of mice living in Harry Potter room under our stairs. Way B: just their dead heads left in the middle of the hallway… perfect for stepping on barefoot in the middle of the night.

      If we ever get another cat, I’m calling you, Dr. Death. ‘Cause, like Carina, I hate killing them myself. But I do want them to magically disappear.

  6. Our former vermin/pet mouse lived in the back of our fridge (on the outside, right near the motor-thingy fortunately I guess, much better than IN the fridge, right?). We knew that, since the cat would not move more than three feet away from said fridge, so we knew something was up. We were just too lazy to do something about it. I guess. Also, the whole ‘I don’t want to kill a mouse, because dead mice make me sad’ thing didn’t help either. Not one bit. Anyway, the mouse died. How we found out about that? We smelled it. Some funky smell was roaming our downstairs (which is all one big space really, usually nice, not then 🙁 ) and it drove us crrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrazy. Especially Mark, since I had a bad cold and couldn’t really smell what he smelled. But since I teach my Lamaze class in our house, we sure did have a problem. A huge, Houston-calling problem. So we set out on a search. Turns out Mark was right (and so was Zopje, the cat, who was staying away from the fridge for the first time in months, smart kitty….) and the smell came from somewhere around our fridge. Hmmm. Big, heavy, not supposed to be moved fridge. Hadn’t been moved for 7 years. Oh dear. So we did. Move the fridge. And Mark cleaned everything he came across while moving it. (see why I love him so much? 😉 ) And then there was Mickey. Or Minnie if you will. As dead as a doornail. Smelling up the place like crazy (I smelled it now, yes I did, where are those clogged sinuses when you need them?) with its little tiny dead body. Sheesh. Anyway, problem solved. Just in time for my class. And the kitchen’s never been cleaner. Yay! 🙂
    I thought you might appreciate a good mouse story. With a happy ending and all. Well, for us, not for the mouse… RIP Mickey/Minnie. For your sake I hope mice heaven doesn’t have cats. Or fridges…

    1. Oh, dear.

      I’m sad to say, I know that smell first hand.

      FYI, it’s not just mice that smell that way. Also… rotten pumpkins (yes, whole pumpkins) in Aden’s room smell that way, but not ’til they turn completely green and start to melt into the carpet. In my defense, we had infant twins at the time, and we didn’t clean Aden’s room for months and months. On second thought, raising children in that kind of filth probably isn’t a defense. Ah, well.

      Also… Aden’s feet smell that way.

      Also… Aden’s mattress smelled that way, but now that we’ve soaked it in, oh, about 2 bottles of Febreeze, it seems to be better.

      Also… milk spilled on carpet and rotting in the subfloor smells that way.

      Also… every minivan we’ve ever owned smells that way.

      😀

      Aren’t you glad I shared?

      (P.S. Donning mourning clothes for Mickey and/or Minnie.)

  7. I think it’s great that letting people think you have vermin also goes in the “Doesn’t Bug Me” category.

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