I totally sold the hubs short on this one.

For years now I have been trying to convince Andy that the children needed a swing set.

His response: I grew up in this neighborhood and I rode my bike down the street to the park when I wanted to swing and I turned out just fine.

My response:  Just because the houses were built in the 70's doesn't mean it still is the 70's.  I have a pedophile tracker app on my phone for crying out loud.

Some of his other excuses responses to my ceaseless whining suggestions included but were not limited to: They cost a small fortune.  The ones that don't cost a small fortune look like big hunks of junk.  I would rather gouge my own eyes out than put one of those together.  And lots of other similar sentences that I chose to ignore while happily shopping the internet for a mid-priced, decent quality swing set.

Last weekend the swing set came in and we sent the children away so that Andy could put it together and surprise them upon their return.

I had all kinds of people on speed dial for the inevitable melt-down that I assumed he would have around page two of the 195 page manual.  

I had a neighbor ready to hog-tie him when he started throwing power tools.  I had a psychologist friend ready to medicate him.  I had ministers, family members, and hospital employees on alert.  

I like to prepare for the worst.

And then I ran and hid for two days straight like a scared little girl.  Because I was.

But wonder of wonders, after two days and a very dedicated father/son team, we had us a swing set.

The screams of sheer joy were priceless.

Mia turning to Bode to scream into his face (not that unusual, really).

 Still screaming:

 And still screaming:

Andy finally admitted last night, while the children were happily playing outside for the millionth time this week, that it was worth it.

And in my most humble, meek, and gentle voice I softly whispered, "I told you so."