Last night I ventured, once again, to the home of my parent's to help them on their quest: the assembling of a rubix cube-like toddler bed.
We are all ready to assemble. Mom stands in front of me, holding the too simplistic directions two inches from her nose. Summer sits in the cushion-less rocking chair (my niece had a bit of a "big girl panties" accident) and stares off into space. Dad fiddles with a pile of tools, bits, screws and bolts.
Ten minutes later we realize that the bolts need to be inserted with an allen wrench.
Which we don't have.
We make a community decision to go ahead and thread the bolts through the side of the bed.
I'm working on the last one, seeing as how I'm the "lucky" chosen one (or the one stupid enough to be in the floor wrestling with a bed pin in 90 degree heat) and realize I can't get it to thread right.
"What the -?" I say. I'm grunting and groaning and wiggling and then - I look over to wear my father is on his knees putting in the last bolt on the other side.
"DAD!" I yell.
Summer and Mom stop talking about whatever it is they were discussing - probably something Elmo-related - and look over at us.
"DAMMIT BEN!" my mother yells. I was fourteen before I realized that my dad's first name was not, in fact, "DAMMIT." "LET HOLLY PUT IN THE OTHER SIDE FIRST AND JUST HOLD THE TOP LIKE I TOLD YA!"
I'm now laughing as beads of sweat drip down my nose.
"We still need an allen wrench," I say as I stand up and wipe my face with my pink shirt.
"Harryhasawholethingofthematthehouse!" My sister says.
"Huh?" I have no clue what she's talking about.
"I'veseenthem. Atyourhouse. Awholethingofallenwrenches."
"Huh? We don't have a big thing of allen wrenches at the house - " and then it dawns on me.
I HAVE A WHOLE SET OF THEM IN MY CAR!!!
Two hours later, we more or less have the bed together and I go home to catch a good night's sleep.
Or so I thought.
At 2:30 AM Phoebe decided to go insane.
I hear a high-pitched squeal and then I bolt upright as she darts from the bed. I hear the jingle of her bell as it is flung at high speeds around the room. She then runs out of the bedroom and down the stairs, pausing momentarily to catch her little kitty breath, and then she zooms back up the stairs and heads for the bedroom door.
She smacks into the door and the screeching and jingling stop abruptly.
"Phoebe?" I offer tentatively to the darkened room. Visions of horrible monsters eating my tiny fluffy kitty bounce around in my foggy brain.
"Mrrreow?" she answers. Jumping on the bed and licking my arm, elbow and underarm fat she settles in to groom me as if I was the one who just hit a door at 70 mph.