Had Mark Twain chosen to write his classic in 2009, the story of Tom Sawyer would contain much more whining and arguing than it does. Twain's fence-painting tale would be filled with children who expect immediate gratification and refuse to wait their turn. Waiting is unheard of.
We finally got around yesterday to painting our cornhole boards that Uncle Johnny made for us (and if he's reading this right now, he's shaking his head because he made that game for us a month and a half ago and we're just now painting it. However, that is about a year sooner than I expected. Actually, what I expected was for the boards to be left out in the rain several times and to become warped and unplayable, and then I would have to build new ones to look exactly like the ones he built should he ever come around to play).
For those of you who aren't familiar with cornhole, it's played with two plywood boards set at an angle with holes drilled in them. The boards are placed a certain distance apart and the two players attempt to toss beanbags (or, cornbags - they're full of unpopped popcorn) into the holes. Score is kept, money is wagered.
Anyway, it was the day to paint them, the sun was shining and Kristy had stopped by Lowe's for exterior, high gloss paint. She also bought one Fisher Price-sized roller and a 4" brush.
There were six kids, each of whom wanted, needed, to paint something white. They pleaded for a turn, they argued, they snatched and they whined ... they whined a lot. The roller was rolled through the grass, which ended up in the paint and on the boards, and the tiny kids wielded the oversized brush as though it were Excalibur. An oversized Excalibur.
It was the loveable, timeless story of Tom Sawyer writ irritating.
Now, I'll take my leave to go fix yesterday's work.
[By the way, I am undefeated on my home course in cornhole. I'll take on all challengers.]