Why having kids turned me into a DIY addict

Cooking tea and cleaning don’t feel like enduring accomplishments, but home improvements do

Described in internet reviews as ‘the beast’, it has finally arrived. Standing on the dining room table, the Makita 9400 belt sander is beckoning me as I write.

I can almost hear the angry whirr of it slicing through my ugly, dirty floorboards. I’m itching to get started, feel its power vibrating through my flimsy arms, dust clogging my nostrils.

But I try to concentrate on my work. After all, I need to pay the bills, not bring the floor up to a pleasing sheen.

It cost £99.99, money I can ill-afford, but I’ve convinced myself the re-sale value on such a brand must be fantastic. I’m only borrowing it really. Aren’t I?

Freelancers will be quite familiar with this scenario perhaps, the idea that some days, anything is preferable to sitting down at the computer and working. There are many Twitter posts from Phd students delighted about unblocking their toilets and novelists discovering a new-found passion for grouting the bathroom. Dogs often feature ‘getting in the way of the keyboard’ and preventing any useful writing taking place.

But I don’t think this is just procrastination for me. My DIY addiction came long before I started working from home.  I’m pretty sure it started when I had kids. The long, endless, low-achieving days when nothing can be written, no real thoughts can be had and snatched conversations with other mums are empty and unfulfilling. 

Cooking the tea and cleaning don’t feel like enduring accomplishments, they seem futile and ephemeral – not lasting monuments to our efforts.

I don’t get my power tools out with the kids around (well, there was that one regrettable time with the hammer drill, thank god the ambulance came on time*) but if I’m at home with my daughter we’ll attack a small job together. Draught-sealing our crumbly old front door, for example – she passes me the screws and I twist them in.

We’ve even done a bit of sanding with the Black and Decker Mouse; my daughter hoovers up the dust and loves it.

Despite these charming moments, I find DIY is a good excuse to be alone, focusing on something and achieving a state of ‘flow’ – a sensation almost unachievable since I had children.

I boot everyone out of the house, or take a day off work, and fly into a decorating frenzy. The silk paint on the living room wall feels like a mistake but nothing else matters when you are wrestling it into place with the roller.

When I upgraded my power tools there was also an extra element of excitement and danger. Padding between the kitchen and the local primary school isn't always a thrill the 6,000th time but I never get bored of the threatening whizz of the drill before it goes into the plasterwork.

So much can go wrong, and does, even with the simplest DIY task. But the research and YouTube videos are a welcome distraction from whatever else you are not achieving in life.

I always have a project on the go – there is always a part of the house that has been ripped apart or stripped in some way, ready for my latest ‘improvement’. If I haven’t got a job on, something feels missing in my life. Of course, I spin them out as long as possible, and always, always leave a little bit unfinished. I don’t even know why I do this, perhaps I don’t want to let go.

Being a parent – despite being an extremely common afflication – can make you feel like a real outsider, especially in many workplaces where youth and flexibility seem to be what counts. It’s easy to feel your skills are unwanted simply because you need to be home on time.

DIY makes me feel purposeful and powerful (sometimes), and asks nothing of me in return.

*this didn't happen, no one was injured in the making of this blog post.