Grace is not in school today so she's hanging with me in the garage. I, as every good mom can attest, am trying to get her involved in something....chalk drawing....playing in the dirt....anything, really, so that she won't ask me 4 million questions JUST when I've measured and remeasured something only to be interrupted by a question. And remeasure again. Mom of the Year, right?
Anyhow, my attempts to get her involved in anything other than the workshop stuff failed so we played, like we do a lot, "wood shop" while I stained some furniture legs. She comes in asking for wood. I act like I'm selling her wood scraps and ask her questions like, "so what brings you here today, ma'am?" She always says she's building toy boxes and a bed for her babies. And when I ask if she does this for a living she says her company name, Mod Mom Furniture. (I always smile when she says that.) This time, I pressed further. "So Grace, who taught you how to do all that cool woodworking stuff?" I was waiting in anticipation and pride for her to say, "My mom taught me." You know what she said.
"Grandpa." "Grandpa taught me to build toy boxes."
(The photo is of Grandpa pushing the kids on the swings at Pismo Beach)
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