Words from the House of Boys

Monday May 3, 2010

You may have read about our new fence. It’s a work of art, the product of a father-son project. It was a big, long, involved project, done in several stages.

Tearing down the old fence – tearing down anything is fun!

Installing fence posts – digging holes in dirt? Awesome.

But last week came the ultimate, the epitome of the project: nailing the boards.

Nails and hammers? What’s so cool about that?

No nails and hammers here – for we’re using a NAIL GUN.

Yes, ladies, that’s like a gun that shoots nails. It actually hooks up to an air compressor, whose air provides the power to SHOOT those nails out and into the boards.

Oh, my. The air compressor is a big thing, and it’s loud, making it even more desirable. But the nail gun itself? When my eighteen-year-old held it (imitating a victory stance), he grinned as if to say, “Boy, will my brothers be jealous.”

They started the nailing process just as I left for the grocery. I stuck my head out the back door and said, “You guys will be careful, won’t you?”

Both husband and son replied with the same words, uttered with the same disgust in their voices: “Yes, of course.” I took a good look to make sure they were both wearing safety glasses.

Although, if that compressor powers a nail into a wooden fence, what chance do safety glasses have? Well, I can’t afford to go there.

Walking through the grocery store, I check several times for texts and make sure my phone is set to ring. Just in case. As I turn the corner onto our street, I see that my husband’s car is gone.

Hmm…

I unlock the door and look through the house for signs of a hurried, emergency exit. None. I check the backyard and there’s no sign of injury. I decide to be a big mom and NOT call to ask what is up. I force myself to assume they just needed a part, for example.

I bring the groceries in, and wait. I put them away, and wait.

Finally the front door opens. They tell me they assumed I was still shopping since I didn’t call. They just knew I’d call to see where they were. (Small victory for Mom, there.)

“So, what’s up?” I ask casually.

My son holds up a monstrosity – and even BIGGER nail gun – and says, “We had to get a BIGGER one!”

His eyes twinkled. He looked as if it were Christmas morning.

His words were accompanied by that Tim the Tool Man grunt, too – I wish I knew how to write that. But you know what I’m talking about.

There were now two boys in front of me. Dad had been transformed, too.

They both reminded me of the preschooler standing at his Fisher-Price tool bench, drill in hand.

It starts so early.

The older he gets, the more reflections I see of his early days.

But the nicest of all is the sight of father and son, side by side, working on a project together. I have pictures of it at three; now I see it again at eighteen.

It’s a beautiful thing – even if it involves a nail gun.