admitting defeat

Spring, 2005. I opened the door and looked out into the garage and saw seats that belonged in my minivan. No minivan, only seats. This could only mean one thing -- something ominous was coming home with my wife.

"Here it is!" she announced, as she pressed the magic door button. Inside were huge boxes roughly big enough to hold corpses. "Sale on caskets?" I asked. Several very big men must have loaded these things into our vehicle and all I could do was imagine the disaster that was about to unfold in the endeavor to remove them.

After flexing my arm muscles (which are no match for most 7th graders, I might add), I tried in desperation to budge the first box. Forget it. I called my neighbor and together, we became a suburban duo of sweat, brawn, and grunting. One by one, we lugged the insanely ponderous boxes into the garage. And there it sat: all 17,030 parts to what would eventually become my children's play structure. More wood than a forest, and more screws than Home Depot. Oh yes, and I am not much of a handy man. This was going to be good.

Spring 2005 became Summer 2005 and the boxes still claimed residence in much of the garage. "Too hot to start on it now" I proclaimed. Autumn arrived and there was a nip in the air. Perfect. Just enough time to get it done before winter and the kids could still get some play time on it. My brilliant and skilled friend Lonnie loaned himself to me for a day to get the ball rolling. By the end of one afternoon, it began to take shape -- sort of. Ok, so we got four posts in the ground and attached the top framework.

It is winter. I begin to think these mysterious wooden posts and beams would look nice with Christmas lights. No, it would make a nice gallows and using it as such seemed like the only way out.

"Daddy, is our swingset done yet? Can I try the slide?"

Despair set in and my wife sensed my dread each morning as I stared at this behemoth which was failing to take shape in my back yard. The mere sight of screws would overwhelm me and send me into fits of crying and gloom.

Spring 2006. We are $400 poorer. A bearded, sunbaked, drill-wielding man named Jack is my paid contractor hero. There is no shame in defeat when in the end, your children are happy. My pride was no longer important. Jack took precisely two days to accomplish what would have taken me until my 3-year-old daughter's freshman year in high school. There is nothing better than the giggle of children in swings, wind in their hair, and the free time I now have to watch them enjoy it.