A house is not a home

So a Wednesday in January brought "I want my house from downstairs". House from downstairs? The Fisher Price one? Might be gone. No. My house. AH, the Christmas present: a box house that you color....Okay, that sounds like a plan.

And it was. Although I couldn't figure out the darn roof and it made me really mad. Put mama in a sour mood. So when I see frustration in your behavior, I've got to remember that. In certain situations I have zero patience. Just work, you thing (lawn mower, computer, car). Don't ask me to be mechanical at all. Nope. You can ask me to analyze, but don't make me figure out how to fix something.  So I resigned myself to "the chimney is going to have to wait until your Dad is up and fixes the roof first". It's funny, but you accept this when I tell you that. "Gonna have to ask your dad to fix it." Dad's the fixer.

You did get in a little coloring time. 

Your dad fixed the roof, got the chimney up and put your names on the 2 doors - one for each of you. He also put our house number on it with a "1/2" added, which I thought was pretty cute.

But by day 3 it had to be dismantled and put away for bigger spaces (the yard!) and warmer weather (late spring!) so that you could do some  more decorating outside. Maybe even paint. So this house will be back.

Man, what a voice.