Bruised Ego's and Bunk-Bed-Induced Profanity

Am I mechanically inclined? Hardly.

Is a lack of mechanical inclination a common trait among my family? Well- yes. Yes it is.

I should say that when push comes to shove, we can get 'er done, but not without our share of self inflicted obstacles first.

So was I all together shocked when I received a phone call from my brother informing me that he had inadvertently trapped himself in my nieces’ bedroom while trying to assemble bunk beds that we intended to work on that evening together? Not in the slightest.

I call it, “The Gene”. The explanation as to why we, as otherwise intelligent people, retain the IQ of a cabbage the moment we're posed with anything remotely related to carpentry, mechanics, or assembly.

“The Gene”—It’s the reason we always "double" the recommended time on any assembly instructions, and why my sister promptly decides to take my nieces out for some mother daughter time the moment the words, “fix”, “build”, or “assemble” pass our lips.

”The Gene”—the one that maintains that we are stubborn enough to think we can, too proud to admit when we can't, and which only seems to allow us the gift of common sense after we have made a mess of a simple fix, repair, or assembly.

So again; was I surprised to learn that my brother tried to tackle the assembly of solid wooden bunk beds the size of half my nieces room on his own? Nope. Surprised that he wound up trapping himself in the room by assembling himself inside the second beds frame with the extra high headboard from both beds trapping the door and any chance of "escape"? Sadly, No—in fact it’s all together too likely that I might have done the same thing.

Was I pondering how to get a 300lb man up and over the headboard, without taking the bed apart? Pondering might be an understatement.

By the time I got home from work my brother had somehow managed his way out of his self imposed cage—after the call of nature yelled a little to loud for him to ignore but to this day, I've never managed to get a straight answer from him as to how he managed this feat without breaking the bed or his neck. Answer or not, I was relieved that he had managed his way out safely. But this however, was only the beginning of our bunk bed blunders.

Sitting half assembled behind a blocked door was still the unfortunate reality that inside the room we couldn’t get into was a bed we’d need to finish assembling with only enough floor space left to fit half my thigh to accomplish this task.

So after much careful consideration it was a 1, 2, 3, heave momentum that lifted one of my nieces up and over the edge of the bunk bed, as we handed her a drill and prayed that at 14 years old she hadn’t inherited the Gene, and would manage to properly space out and drill into place the slats that would be responsible for keeping her secure on the top bunk.

Crisis averted. All we had left to do was figure out how precisely we were going to bunk the two beds together with no way into the room and no space to manoeuvre the bed.

The gap between the wall and the footboards of either bed was tiny at best, and as magnificently as my niece had done drilling together her own bed, there was no way on Gods green earth that this girl would be able to lift the end of the bunk bed to nearly shoulder height and hold it there long enough to position it onto the pegs.

I'm not a tiny girl by any stretch of the imagination and so the prospect of squeezing my not-so-tiny frame in between the footboard and the wall was a last resort—and the decision we ended up coming to after realizing that any "thinner" options included calling someone to come and help us and of course in turn allowing them to see the mess we'd gotten ourselves into in the first place.

And so, it was a 1, 2, 3 heave as my brother gave my foot a boost over the headboard and I began a challenging gymnastics routine of bed vaulting, and box spring hurdles which ended with a deep breath as I sucked in my gut, cursed at myself for eating that big Mac for lunch, and jammed myself between the bed and the wall.

And finally with us all set and in place-- It was a 1, 2, 3 heave momentum that shot a pain up my back and profanity out of my mouth as we lifted the bed up, shimmied it over, and rested it on the pegs.

I'm not sure if I mentioned earlier when explaining the family "gene" but another trait associated with this gene, aside from frustration induced profanity, is the complete lack of ability to properly read instructions.

So was I all together surprised when I realized that the second bed had been assembled backward leaving of course the holes to fasten the bed’s ladder on the backside of the bed? Surprised, nope—Impressed, well…

Remember that profanity I mentioned?

Yet another 1,2,3 heave as my brother and I manoeuvred this mountain of a bed 180 degrees, in a room the size of a mole hill. Id be lying if I said that words did not violently spew from my mouth I didn't even know I was capable of uttering. And, no, I haven't apologized to the bed yet, and we are currently not on speaking terms.

When all was said and done, the bed my brother and I all survived- rising above the "gene" and the disasters we created to provide two amazing, bright, beautiful twin girls- the space they needed and deserved. Two girls, who's only need for extra space by way of bunk beds, came out of their own self-sacrifice, when they opted to share a bedroom, so the "family could have an office for dad, Stef’s work, moms day care planning". So though I may have made enemies with the bunk bed after my not-so-kind words, and created a few aches and pains for myself—for those remarkable girls with hearts bigger then that monster of a bed-- it was worth the muscle pain, and bruised egos.