The Move

"Daddy, please can you put my computer in my bedroom?"
"Sure, Sweetheart."
"With this stand."
"It's a bit big, but we'll make a plan."
"Thank you Daddy! I love you!"

You poor sucker.

Her room didn't have space for the computer, which is why it was in the lounge in the first place. And, of course, a father's delusion that his child actually wants to be in his company while she's playing on the computer.

In truth, I had been thinking that it was time to swap bedrooms anyway and give her the bigger room. At thirteen, she needs space. All I need is a gap for escape and to sleep. So, bravely and resolutely I enter her room, then mine, to start the planning.

Three days later, I am not the same man. Covered in Band Aids and bruises, an aching back and a "crushed" foot, I wonder why they can't just stay small. Smaller is better. Except, of course, for the recurring dream of that wonderful knight in shining armour who will whisk her away one day on a white steed and make her dreams come true, while raising beautiful, well-behaved grandchildren who stay small. Then I look at the boys she likes - and I know...reality sucks.

First things first. Before I move furniture around, clean the walls of her artwork and philosophies. "Mr Muscle" has never let me down. With sweat running torrents down my forehead and burning my delusional eyes, I finally see that whiteboard markers don't come off mat paint. Neither does pencil. Some lipstick does. Eyeliner, to a degree. A lot of substances just fade. Not like enthusiasm - that disappears completely.

So .... already exhausted, a quick trip to the paint shop. This wasn't part of the plan. Paint the spots. Paint one whole wall. Guess what? It needs a second coat.

Day two. Right, now we can actually start the move. Okay, with all the cupboards full, where do all the clothes go during the change, without getting in the way of furniture in transit? Clothes first or furniture? Chicken or the egg? Gotta empty stuff before you can move it. Gotta have stuff in place before you can pack it.

Day three. Finally. After dropping a heavy object on my foot and all but crushing it. After hammering an industrial staple into the soft mound of my zap finger so that the blood shot out like a fountain. (I miss it. I feel stupid showing another driver a zap finger with a Band Aid on it - he probably thinks I want him to kiss it better...) After hands have been shredded by walls, furniture and detergents. After multiple bruises and back clicks that activate suffering like the click of a mouse on the pain button. At last:

"Sweetheart, your computer is in your room."
"Oh, thank you,Daddy," she gushes, "I LOVE it! You're the best"

As you manoeuvre your aching muscles into your mattress that night, hardly believing what you've done to yourself, a little voice calls out from your old domain:

"Daddy ....! I miss my room!"

You discover that the other hand also has a zap finger.