I am my mother’s “designated son”. If something is leaking, broken, or sounds funny at her house, I go over and take a look at it.
But not in my own house. At my house I’m useless.
At my mother’s house I have battled AC units, crawled under sinks, and behind toilets. I’ve hammered, drilled, and installed.
At my house I’m suddenly impotent. “Babe, can you fix this?” “Why won’t this work?” “How do I – ?” “Can you – ?” Complain. Moan. Badger.
Who is this inept person?? Where does the ‘Can Do’ girl go?
Before we were married, I had working knowledge and hands-on experience with more tools than my future husband did – a result of working in a scene shop in college and coming from a line of carpenters. He has since caught up and surpassed me – a result of homeownership and a DIY attitude, something I love about him and used to share.
When I was pregnant with Kitten, I refinished the hall floors. When I was pregnant with Buddy, I installed crown molding. I can do stuff!!
But not recently. Now when the toilet breaks: “Babe!” When the door frame needs new molding: “Honey!” Unless it’s in my mother’s house. For my mother I dig down and re-awaken my inner handyman.
What’s wrong with me? Have I lost my edge or am I succumbing to some sort of site-specific domestication? Perhaps I’ve been spoiled by my husband’s ever-increasing handyman skill-set? Perhaps my mother’s call for help is just more motivating than the million little unfinished honey-do projects I pass everyday and ignore in my own house?
Ya. We’ll go with that last one.