Reason # 38 why I hate military housing

16 04 2008

Because this afternoon, all loaded up with a toddler, his camera, my keys and phone, an extremely heavy backpack (which held the diaper bag essentials as well as my mac), and a big chunker of a baby on my hip, I opened the front door to find a man on the stairs, painting. Painting the stairs, that is.

The very stairs I was looking to walk down to, you know, reach the outside world.

The very stairs that they just painted a few months ago.

The very stairs that comprise the only exit from our house.

I said, “Um, are the stairs… wet?” He looked at me and said, “just this half.” “This half” was about 2/3 of each stair, going down the side closest to the wall. The stairs are very steep, especially when you consider your under-3-year-old walking down them, who needs you to hold his hand. ESPECIALLY especially when you consider that you’re currently holding about 40 extra pounds at the moment (15 of those pounds being ALIVE and PRECIOUS). Well, at least the wet side was the side next to the wall, leaving the railing next to the dry side to aid us while we (somehow) made our way down.

“The railing is wet, too,” Mr. Painter told me.




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