Bed jumper learns a lesson
Let’s just say this: I was a bed jumper all of my childhood. I did it whenever I could get away with it, and even when I couldn’t because the sweet feeling of springs popping beneath my feet was worth any punishment anyone could give.
And life could get no better when my new furniture suite arrived and I was awarded with a four-poster bed (with removable spindle tops that so awesomely could double as microphones). I was around eight, and when the put the dresser with the large mirror was placed directly across from my new bed, a star was born.
I sang every Beach Boys song there was into those wooden bed parts while I danced and jumped and watched my talent blossom in the opposing mirror. Someday, I would be famous, I thought.
Instead, someday is today, and that bed isn’t gold-plated in a museum, it was instead passed down to my daughter. Along with the bed jumping gene. It didn’t last but a few years before the cracks got too big for comfort and we had to purchase a new bed.
After much thought and too little measurement, we settled on a trundle bed so that visitors (and siblings) could easily share the room with her. It was near perfect until we realized that pulling out the trundle wouldn’t work with the existing wall-to-wall furniture we had packed in to her room.
And so, for over a month, her brand-new bed has sat stagnant in the center of her room, whilst the perimeter of it piled up and became impassable.
It is a well-known fact that people in this house don’t have the greatest git-r-dun track record, so after sneaking into the room to give the kids a kiss goodnight and stepping on a poorly placed flatulent noise maker toy, I decided that enough was enough, and I was going to take matters into my own tiny hands. I would get this room in order, no matter what.
Armed with a tape measure, I knew I would have to remove one piece of furniture from my daughter’s room, and removing the large mirror would be too devastating. I would need to take out a bureau, meaning I would have to find somewhere else to stick the clothes.
After a fast contemplation of whether I could get all of this done before my husband came home from work, surely to be astonished and amazed at my handyman progress, I rushed off to purchase a closet unit for my kid. This was happening! A girl with a screwdriver, I assembled the gigantic unit all by myself, only saying a few choice words at mislabeled parts and cutting myself only once.
When it was all finished, I lumbered it into the closet, only to realize that a) there was a bookshelf full of books in the way, and then, after moving the bookshelf, b) the closet unit did not fit. (So much for that measuring tape, eh?)
Glancing at my watch, I saw how much time I had left in my day to remedy this situation before my husband came home with enough ammunition to make fun of me for days. I had just a few hours, after much thought, to rearrange the furniture in two other bedrooms to make this one measly closet unit fit.
Weary, bleeding, and sore from hauling 60 pound bookshelves around my house, I ended up with everything in its place, except that now three bedrooms were covered in books and my own closet was completely torn apart because, in the end, it was the only place that the new closet unit would actually fit.
I may have looked like I had weathered the tornado that had blown through our second level, but I had semi-accomplished something, all by myself. Not only that, but standing there rubbing my sore muscles I re-learned the importance of “measure twice.”
But really, there’s a much more important lesson to learn from my chaotic afternoon of furniture: don’t jump on the bed.
And life could get no better when my new furniture suite arrived and I was awarded with a four-poster bed (with removable spindle tops that so awesomely could double as microphones). I was around eight, and when the put the dresser with the large mirror was placed directly across from my new bed, a star was born.
I sang every Beach Boys song there was into those wooden bed parts while I danced and jumped and watched my talent blossom in the opposing mirror. Someday, I would be famous, I thought.
Instead, someday is today, and that bed isn’t gold-plated in a museum, it was instead passed down to my daughter. Along with the bed jumping gene. It didn’t last but a few years before the cracks got too big for comfort and we had to purchase a new bed.
After much thought and too little measurement, we settled on a trundle bed so that visitors (and siblings) could easily share the room with her. It was near perfect until we realized that pulling out the trundle wouldn’t work with the existing wall-to-wall furniture we had packed in to her room.
And so, for over a month, her brand-new bed has sat stagnant in the center of her room, whilst the perimeter of it piled up and became impassable.
It is a well-known fact that people in this house don’t have the greatest git-r-dun track record, so after sneaking into the room to give the kids a kiss goodnight and stepping on a poorly placed flatulent noise maker toy, I decided that enough was enough, and I was going to take matters into my own tiny hands. I would get this room in order, no matter what.
Armed with a tape measure, I knew I would have to remove one piece of furniture from my daughter’s room, and removing the large mirror would be too devastating. I would need to take out a bureau, meaning I would have to find somewhere else to stick the clothes.
After a fast contemplation of whether I could get all of this done before my husband came home from work, surely to be astonished and amazed at my handyman progress, I rushed off to purchase a closet unit for my kid. This was happening! A girl with a screwdriver, I assembled the gigantic unit all by myself, only saying a few choice words at mislabeled parts and cutting myself only once.
When it was all finished, I lumbered it into the closet, only to realize that a) there was a bookshelf full of books in the way, and then, after moving the bookshelf, b) the closet unit did not fit. (So much for that measuring tape, eh?)
Glancing at my watch, I saw how much time I had left in my day to remedy this situation before my husband came home with enough ammunition to make fun of me for days. I had just a few hours, after much thought, to rearrange the furniture in two other bedrooms to make this one measly closet unit fit.
Weary, bleeding, and sore from hauling 60 pound bookshelves around my house, I ended up with everything in its place, except that now three bedrooms were covered in books and my own closet was completely torn apart because, in the end, it was the only place that the new closet unit would actually fit.
I may have looked like I had weathered the tornado that had blown through our second level, but I had semi-accomplished something, all by myself. Not only that, but standing there rubbing my sore muscles I re-learned the importance of “measure twice.”
But really, there’s a much more important lesson to learn from my chaotic afternoon of furniture: don’t jump on the bed.
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