Hurt

Back when we had some water troubles our dining room ceiling plaster was damaged and then we had to take out even more of the ceiling to put in new pipes to fix the problem(s). Then since we had it torn up, we figured we might as well re-wire the electric since we were going to have to have it fixed anyway. Luckily, my husband is very handy, and did all of the rewiring himself. He saves us so much money! Now we have no longer one outlet in the dining room, but seven! Count them, seven! And he put one out in the Sun parlor (off the dining room) and ran wires so we can have an outside light over the Sun parlor door. Then he even went and found a light that matches the lamp posts and lights we have on the terrace. Anyway, I digress, that is not what this post is about.

We hired someone to fix the plaster and skim coat the whole dining room and he finished last week so we primed on Saturday. Now I have to say that Tim hates to paint, but since we were doing the ceiling and walls and crown molding, I needed help. I just don't have the upper body strength to roll over my head for the ceiling. But by the time he was halfway on the ceiling he was hating it and not a happy camper, but he hung in there with me and we got it done.

Then on Sunday we painted the walls (we're leaving the ceiling just primer for now, we have visions of doing something "fancy" with the ceiling down the road). He trimmed and I rolled and it went well. When my sister and her fiance got home she helped watch the boys and he helped trim and it went fast and smooth. Again, not really what this post was about, just the background so you know why Tim didn't want me interrupted.

Monday night I was washing down all the woodwork to get the plaster dust (and dirt from before the plaster) off after the kids were in bed. Tim was upstairs taking the sconces from our bedroom to bring down to the dining room, they look much better in there. At some point I heard one of the kids, but then they were quiet so I didn't worry about it. Turns out Tim is continuing to keep me supplied with blogging fodder. As we were getting ready for bed he relayed the following exchange:

Noah, walking down the hall. "Noah what are you doing?"
"I want to tell my mom something."
"Well Mom is busy, tell me."
"But I want to tell my mom."
"You can go tell Mom, but she'll spank you for being out of bed. Now you better just tell me."
"My body hurts."
"Where?"
"Somewhere on my body hurts."
"Where on your body?"
"On my," as he quickly tries to figure out what hurts "arm. Right," Tim mimics Noah (which is hysterical in it's own right) and takes his right hand and gestures down his left arm all the way down to the very tip of his index finger like he's looking at a microscopic spot "here."

Needless to say, I was not interrupted with my cleaning to get the "hurting" report.