I'm a helper.....

For those of you that don't know... my wife rocks.  She is like the female, hot, version of Bob Villa.  I on the other hand, have been given talents that don't involve a hammer, tool belt and certainly not a level - just ask her.  I am a helper and I'm good with that.

This past weekend, I joined my wife and kids as we traveled to my parents house to complete a project started by my wife the previous weekend.  An addition of tile back splash in the kitchen and more tile that now surrounds the fireplace in the family room is what awaited us.  MOST of the work had already been completed by my better half and this trip was to grout and finish up.  I like that, there for the polish and celebration of a completed effort.  Like I get to be in the victory parade without having to endure all of the things that warrant the parade in the first place.

We got started on Saturday morning with my wife asking me to remove the excess grout from the back splash in the kitchen.  Apparently as grout gets hard it becomes impossible to remove from the tiles that it is smeared on.  Think concrete.  So I'm handed a sponge with one rough side and one soft, a chisel thing and a bucket of water.  I, the helper, can do this.  I start in on those little 2" tiles, quickly realizing there are a lot of them and wondering how so much grout could have possibly be left behind.  I start with the sponge and not much time passes before I realize this sponge stands no chance against the hardest material known to man.  Sponge shrapnel is flying and my fingers are growing numb from the intense pressure that is needed on these grout-covered beauties.  I should have considered safety goggles for this project.

As I look around for better options, I see the chisel and know this will re-energize me and allow me to be the helper I know I can be.  I will not allow my wife or onlooking parents to recognize the struggle and fear in my eyes.  The chisel is better.  It's light and bends as needed.  As I reach the 10th, 20th or possibly 30th individual tile that requires my attention, I realize that my forearm is starting to cramp.  This shouldn't be.  They are 2" tiles and I'm a helper!  Again, shielding my discomfort and concern, I'm quick to reply to questions as to how I'm doing with a smile and "doing good, coming off easily".  I'm a liar.  I know that I've only completed a third of the work needed at this point and can almost feel the beads of nervous sweat starting to bead up on my noggin.  I will not quit and I am a helper.  I think I would rather come across a back woods, banjo playing hillbilly named Jasper that is in need of my efforts to remove years of plaque build up with this fancy chisel thing of mine.

Things quickly get personal with this little "to-do" of mine as I now feel the need to have each tile on the wall receive my focus and effort.  So one by one, I travel down the wall with the extreme desire to finish.  By this time, I can no longer feel my right arm and know the left arm is no good with the understanding if I throw a baseball like a girl with the left, it can't be trusted in this high pressure, high demand scenario.  I will have to apologize to my right arm later.  The morning quickly turns into early afternoon and I notice my pop sipping on a beer.  Can that be right?  Should I take a break and partake?  Will I have the desire to return to my dungeon that is the back splash if I stray?  I don't risk it, again looking for the approval and appreciation from my wife and acknowledgement that I'm a helper.

I can see the finish line, only a handful of tiles to go.  I race through those with commitment, anticipation and numbness... no longer able to feel my fingers, and my right forearm that is apparently quivering has now stopped talking to me.  I complete the work.  Then, with confidence and pride, I revisit my work and appear to look for anything that I might have missed, knowing that if I stumbled upon something - it would stay just the way it is.  As I proclaim victory, I quickly grab a beer.  TASTY.   Beer now in hand and my nerves settled, I look around at the work done and the work still in progress and ask my wife if there's anything else I can do.  She says "nope, you're good".  BLESS HER.  If she would have asked me to do anything more, I would have had to sucker punch her in the spleen.  (kidding of course).  So, I allow myself to sit down, have my beer (followed by another) and relax.  Not wanting to appear selfish or slacking as my wife continues her work, I meander into the kitchen to confirm that I'm still off the clock.  As I stand there by my wife's side, providing my complete remote and moral support, my mom notices something from across the kitchen.  She looks at one of the glass tiles that had undergone my treatment and asks "Babe, can you get this little spot too?".  I peer at the glass tile with anger and hatred towards the little 2" devil.  There is a small, I mean SMALL amount of visible grout covering the tiniest corner of the tile.  As I "calmly" thank my mother for pointing out this obvious lack of quality and control on my part, I chisel that little sucker until it sparkles.  Ahh, again....  victory.

I return to the chair with beer in hand and quite certain that I shall not stumble into the kitchen for anything more in fear that another 2" tile screams out for anything.  I'm done.  I'm finished.  I'm a helper.