Daddy's little helper paradox

Anyone else find Daddy's little helper to be not so helpful?

It's the cutest damn thing in the world to see Abby following me with a screwdriver in her hand and I really want to encourage her to feel comfortable helping around the house. But, she's friggin useless. She can't even hold a flashlight at the right angle. Instead she presses the bulb right up to where I'm working for a second and then puts it right in her eye, looks at me and starts laughing and giggling. What kind of help is that? I’ve worked with meth addicts who have had more focus.

And it's not like I can get rid of her by physically moving her out of the way. You pick her up, move her aside and she's right back where she was before you are. Quantum leaps are no mystery to a father trying to get a sliding closet door on a track without stabbing his child with a Philips screwdriver. Sure, they happen all the time.

So what do you do? You get mad. And you say something stupid like "That's one, you don't want to get to three" She's not even two you stupid twit. The concept of one is outside her reality, let alone three. I'd have just as much success saying "That's hotdog, you don't want to get to purple".

And then she looks at me with these big eyes and her lower lip sticks out like a cheap Ikea wall shelf and I know what's coming. The water works. Only one option at this point, give her the screw driver and let her beat the crap out of what ever piece of drywall, hardwood floor or furniture might be near. Anything is better then having her cry.

Then it's back to work. I finally get a chance to work without interruption for a second. If she beats a hole in the drywall, no worries, I've got some patch downstairs… the floor might be a different issue, but I'll worry about that bridge when I get there

And then BOOM!

I look over just in time to see her standing there half bent over, arms outstretched and a 15 year old computer that weighs about as much as she does on her toes. The scream comes about a nanosecond after I piece together what just happened. Mom comes up the stairs about a nanosecond after that. Suddenly, you’re the son of a bitch who tried to amputate his kid’s toes with Dell desktop circa 1995. Course, my wife never actually accuses me, but I feel bad enough to infer it.

She takes Abby downstairs and I finish the job in 2 seconds. No sense of accomplishment or pride with this job. I'd rather have Daddy's little helper helping and never get the damn thing finished at all. And that’s the paradox.