The painters took down my house numbers. Ah, well. I never liked them anyway. All odd, masculine numbers. Maybe I’ll choose a collection of even numbers this time, I thought. Perhaps my birthday, so I’ll remember it.

(I’m not so foolish. I’m just whimsical.)

I thought of setting it aside until someone asked if I had a task that needed completed. And then I read this sentence in a book: “No. She will handle this on her own.”

Yes. Yes, she will.

I enlisted my helpers. They unwrapped the numbers, they handed me masking tape, they took turns riding down the driveway in the wagon.
I called in reinforcements at one point: my neighbor. Can you tell me why the screw isn’t going into the wall? Ah, so a drill operates in a reverse direction as well, then. Noted.

I drilled. I placed. I measured. I caulked. I rocked it.

I found the old kitchen towels, from our Kohl’s wedding registry, chosen with charm more than twelve years ago. Cranberry gingham. I used those to wipe away the excess caulk. And then I painted over the excess of the excess.

My helpers (still in their jammies) were really quite helpful, until Tyler caulked a rock to the wall and drilled a hole in the house. Not so much the goal.

I set him aside with my iPhone, inviting him to take pictures. He distracted himself with a different task involving a paring knife and some grapes. (Which was maybe not so wise, since he has now claimed ownership and obsession of the knives in our house.)

Anyway, guess who has new house numbers? Me.
Guess who hung them? Me.

“Mommy, I’m a million times super proud of you.”

Thanks, buddy. I kind of am, too.

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