I am now buff.
(That is, if "buff" means so sore I can barely move.
Maybe what I meant to say is "I'm old.")
For the past week, my husband and I have been working on our house. We've been up on ladders scraping and painting, re-glazing wooden windows, and putting up new soffits. (That's my new vocabulary word, by the way. It means the horizontal piece that connects the outer edge of the roof to your house.)
And now I understand why roofers are always, well, buff.
Balancing on a ladder and working above my head has tired out muscles I didn't know I had. Every night this weekend, my husband and I turned into zombies in front of the fireplace, not moving because we were too sore or stiff. And when we got up in the morning, we did it all again.
Now, hubby is replacing the roof on the garage. He's working furiously to finish the project before it rains on Wednesday.
My work is only half-done. I'm scraping, priming, and painting our front porch -- even though my arms feel just about ready to fall off.
The kids have thoroughly enjoyed this week. They've been playing outside from breakfast until sunset every day, collapsing in a tired heap along with us. I can't help feeling that today will be different for them, though. They're back to school for the first time in three weeks. Our Fall break is over, and it will be back to the books. They'll come home full of energy just as I am dragging my limp-noodle arms behind me into the house.
Pray they don't decide to get in a tickle-fight later.
In my newly "buff" state, I don't think I could defend myself.
- Midwest Mom