Today I finally understood why dad always got frustrated when building furniture.
Not that he let it out on us, but I definitely have memories of dad getting annoyed while constructing things. Whether that was due to his negligence of reading the instructions or his little helpers being less than helpful, I don't know. He never yelled or anything, but I could tell, even as a kid, that he was annoyed.
I bought a five-shelf bookcase for my classroom today. It was cheap, and the quality showed in the manner the pieces were made. So, after lugging that heavy box from my car, up the stairs, and into the classroom (headstrong, independent, and possibly foolish person that I am... I'll probably be sore tomorrow), I set about building. And about five minutes in, I was wishing I had just bought some wood and nails to make my own shoddy bookshelf, since that would at least be easy, if ugly. Step 2 probably took me an hour. There was almost blood, definitely sweat, and, embarrassingly, tears as well. The plywood boards I was supposed to screw together didn't really have holes for the screws - there were these tiny indentations, making it nigh impossible to make the screws go in, let alone at a right angle. I found myself frustrated beyond what anybody should feel when putting together a simple bookcase. Then the tears came as I wished dad were there to help me figure out how to get the blasted thing together. Or to explain what on earth a cam screw is and how it works (which I later figured out all by me onesies).
I think he would be very proud of me for building that stinking bookshelf all by myself.
And for not swearing. Or giving up.
Not that he let it out on us, but I definitely have memories of dad getting annoyed while constructing things. Whether that was due to his negligence of reading the instructions or his little helpers being less than helpful, I don't know. He never yelled or anything, but I could tell, even as a kid, that he was annoyed.
I bought a five-shelf bookcase for my classroom today. It was cheap, and the quality showed in the manner the pieces were made. So, after lugging that heavy box from my car, up the stairs, and into the classroom (headstrong, independent, and possibly foolish person that I am... I'll probably be sore tomorrow), I set about building. And about five minutes in, I was wishing I had just bought some wood and nails to make my own shoddy bookshelf, since that would at least be easy, if ugly. Step 2 probably took me an hour. There was almost blood, definitely sweat, and, embarrassingly, tears as well. The plywood boards I was supposed to screw together didn't really have holes for the screws - there were these tiny indentations, making it nigh impossible to make the screws go in, let alone at a right angle. I found myself frustrated beyond what anybody should feel when putting together a simple bookcase. Then the tears came as I wished dad were there to help me figure out how to get the blasted thing together. Or to explain what on earth a cam screw is and how it works (which I later figured out all by me onesies).
I think he would be very proud of me for building that stinking bookshelf all by myself.
And for not swearing. Or giving up.
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