So yesterday Mike gets back with one power sprayer thing with which to spray the fence with stain. He uses it for awhile and then asks me what I think.

Mike doesn’t often ask this, but is working on asking this particular question MORE, so I answer. “Looks really good. Won’t need as much on other areas, blah blah blah.”

He leans on my truck, stares at the fence, and after awhile, he asks me again what I think.

I’m all for encouraging good habits with repetition. So I answer him, word for word, exactly what I said before and do not point out that this is getting repetitive.

He stares at the fence, and after awhile, he asks me again what I think.

I said, “That’s the third time in about 3 minutes you’ve asked me what I think and I keep repeating what I think. Maybe what you’re struggling with here is your own expressing.”

There was something so awkward about that moment – and about that sentence ending in the word “expressing” that made me think about expressing breastmilk. Also awkward and painful at first. But I didn’t mention breastmilk because then he never would have said anything at all. For like, ever.

“So! Go ahead! Express.”

“I think we should hire someone else.”

This is where I should be encouraging and applaud the communication skills used. Because clearly, it took some effort and some Truck Leaning, and some pep talking.

But instead I said, “SHUT UP! No! I am Someone Else! I will do it. You can be my sous chef for paint and I will do all the… real work.”

“Sous chef for paint? I don’t know what that means.”

But? He DID. He watches Food Network with me. He knew. And I stink at metaphors and screw them up all the time, but that one isn’t really THAT bad by my standards.

Then he picked up the sprayer, went back to work, and didn’t let me get my hands on the sprayer for about 6 more hours, even though I wanted to desperately and in frustration crudely said, “WHAT? Does it actually run on testicle power and so it actually won’t even WORK if you let me try…?” (He ignored that. And he still wouldn’t share.)

Just as well.

Because yesterday in the middle of the Stain the Fence project, Caden-7yr was playing with Nerf guns and ended up needing to go to the emergency room. Not your standard 4th of July ER trip, I guess.

He hit his head on the dining room table, bending over to grab a Nerf bullet.  I was inside at the time, mad at having been summarily dismissed from Participating In Any Real Way Outside, and heard the screams of Ethan-11yr.  I pulled Caden-7yr to me, sat him in my lap on the floor and held him tight while trying to figure out where all the blood was coming from. We were both covered in it before I found the source – a small but deep cut on the right side of his forehead. I sent Ethan-11yr for Mike, Seth-5yr for a washcloth, and was glad that all the redwood stain all over my arms and legs camouflaged all the blood because the sight of it was bothering Caden-7yr.

His forehead was glued and taped back together and then we came home and continued staining the fence. Caden-7yr thought it was complete overkill that I told him there would be no more Nerf guns yesterday.

And to this, we say, “too bad, Caden-7yr.”

A neighbor came over while I was spraying the fence and talked to Mike about how hard it was. Mike pointed in my direction and said, “that makes it a LOT easier.” For a minute I thought he meant me, but realized he was talking about the sprayer. Of course.

We finally finished. It’s not a job that’s all that professional, I suppose, but we’re happy with it. Mike made grand statements about how well we work together and what a great team we make. He seemed upbeat and sincere, even.  I would have never summed up that particular day with those conclusions, and wondered at all the possibilities of what that might mean.

I didn’t have it in me to see what else might need to be expressed.

The fence is stained. The child is glued. All is pretty much well.

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