We have a hurkin’ kitchen table. With it’s extra leaves it can seat 12 comfortably, but we squeeze more sometimes. It’s so heavy that no one person can put the leaves in single-handedly. But it could not stand up to my children.
It was beautiful, but weak. What good is a table surface that can’t handle spills or heat? Or Wesley? (That’s his spot that is the most worn down to bare wood.)
We had to remove the legs, but Dwayne and I finally got it to the garage, where I stripped, sanded, stained, stained, stained, and varnished the table top. I bought a Spar varnish that should hold up to a nuclear holocaust (or Wesley) and put on several coats.
And why am I being so hard on Wesley? He’s earned it. After I learned I can’t varnish at night (the moths loved to do the Dance of the Dying over the wet surface), I varnished it and left it to dry on a Sunday afternoon. Turns out I can’t varnish during the day, either. Wesley, in spite of the rule of not spraying water in the garage no matter what (“Even if there’s a fire, Mama?”), thought he’d spray both the hose and his water gun in the garage, and over all 4 pieces I had just varnished.
But it gets worse.
I saw it when I went out to the car. We had another…chat…about the rules, and why, and how this makes more work for Mama, and he’s too old to be this thoughtless and destructive. He appeared to be genuinely repentant and I cleaned it up the best I could.
I ran my errand and came back in ten minutes to….freshly sprayed water on the table.
Do the math. It took him less than 10 minutes to do the exact same thing that was forbidden on so many levels minutes earlier.
I went ballistic and Wesley went to his room.
He may be there still.