When our computer died recently, my husband brought it home from the repair shop for our eight-year old son to dismantle. Tonight was THE night, so with a towel spread out to protect the dining table and Dad’s screwdrivers in hand, he set to work.
An hour later, just before bedtime, I went over to check on his progress. There were bits and pieces, everywhere. And his commentary went something like this:
“I think it would have better if you had been over here.
Actually…probably not, ‘cause I had to get on top of the (dining) table a few times to get at some of it” .
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