Project One: Done. A Gallery.

When Steve is away, I choose a random task to complete. Why? To delude myself that I am efficient and useful in his absence.  Steve has suggested that I teach myself to cook.  The kitchen is for reading the newspaper. Silly Man.

Last year I did my “This is Your Life, Dahl Boys” project.  The journey was harrowing- tens of thousands of pictures, all edited and organized….my inexorable march from young and fresh to saggy and tired. The boys, from sweet babies to married men. All mounted and ready to migrate to their homes.

The albums and  the tubs of treasures are unclaimed, unexamined. Apparently only I revel in the past.  Drat.  I didn’t even gain closet space with that effort.

This year’s goals are accordingly less ambitious.  So far I have ignored my own coauthoring book proposal for Steve. Hell- I can barely get a blog together.  Who am I kidding?

I cleaned inside the bathroom vanities and cleared the gigantic stacks of junk off the kitchen counters.  Straightened out two overstuffed kitchen cabinets. Moved all the alcohol to a bar cabinet and washed all the spotty wine glasses.  Organized the linen closet.  Cleaned the refrigerator.

Hell- it’s not much, is it? I swear- tomorrow it will be 60 degrees and I plan to clean the attic and wash the dog. Then I will deserve a real “Ta-Da.” (Maybe) And a chiropractor.

Last week’s chilly weather served as fine excuse to stay home. I frittered my time away. Guilt hit me on Thursday- and so I began the the relocation of my “baby station” from Pat’s old room to Matt’s.

There were plenty of reasons to do this, the best being that the surround sound speakers in the floor/ceiling under the crib would keep a baby vibrating.  And awake.  Which means crying.  Which means the parents will not want to have sleepovers with us.  The solution is a change of venue. Because I crave baby love at night and in the morning.  THERE WILL BE OVERNIGHTS.

Matt’s room is small, dark and quiet.  There was still room for the crib once Walterdog’s crate and and a rocking chair left the premises. I figured he would be tickled that it was morphing into a haven for the next generation of Dahls.

BUT- when I started texting  pictures of stuff that I encountered in under bed storage, night stands and on walls- Matt became very unhappy with my desire to repurpose my (his) space.  He retorted, and I quote, “that’s horse_____! Why does systematically dismantling my childhood have to be this year’s Dad-in-Florida project?!”

I calmed him with the image of his own baby someday cuddling in his old space, and the promise that I would throw nothing out.  And then I started.

The bed had to be disassembled, reassembled and dragged across the hallway. No matter how many schemes I tried to avoid this task, it would not clear the door jamb. Curses. Then action.  With a dumb little hex wrench.  16 screws. Righty tighty. Lefty loosey.  Yep, I’m a pro.  Steve taught me that ditty.  For plumbing.

Eventually, I got the hang of it. It was time consuming, but I triumphed.  No paint was sacrificed, no parts were lost. My hands have since returned to the proper outstretched position. The room works perfectly.

The resulting enclave strobes  too masculine for Mary with its nautical theme, but since her Mom was a water polo star, I think she will be comfortable with the aquatic emphasis.  That is my story, and I am sticking to it. And I will now be googling every baby site to find nautical accents that look a little less masculine.  Maybe a mermaid?

I may do a dedicated nursery someday, but for now- I just want space where my Grandbabies will be warm and welcomed,  ever observed by my new night vision monitor.  These days, there is no bliss in ignorance.

As I finished cleaning the old baby room and the new one- I realized I had better buy a Pack and Play or a portable crib. I am liking this Grandbaby stage of life.  I want to be ready for multiples.

And yes….Happy Dahl toddled into Grandma Janet’s home and heart on Saturday night.  And on Sunday morning….he was still in the house.  Success.

Make your reservations, babies.


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