Mother and I painted Number Three’s bedroom on Friday night. Three had gone off to her first sleep over at a friend’s home (where, incidentally, the friend’s brother had returned home from Scout camp early when 175 Boy Scouts contracted a norovirus that spread like wildfire through the camp. The next day, Three’s friend came down with the norovirus, so we’ve just been counting down for the 48 hour incubation period to pass and keeping our fingers crossed).
Mother told Three that when she came back in the morning from her sleep over, her room would be painted, to which Three replied, “You mean it won’t be blank any more?” Number three is seven years old and her description of her room as blank was very apt. Her room has remained the beat up flat white it was when we moved in seven years ago. Blank was the perfect description of the wall color. With a little coaching from Mother, Three picked out a beautiful lavender paint. Real men call it purple.
Mother spent the day readying the room and painting the trim. After all that prep, there was no way I would get the satisfaction of being the one to roll on the paint. Besides, Mother has come to distrust my skills with a brush to some extent. I was the brush cleaner, the electrical outlet handler, the scraper and sander. I was not the painter. Still, after an hour I was covered in paint!
After a few hours, though, there came a point where I wasn’t feeling useful. I thought to myself, “Mother’s parents (my in-laws), always did these kinds of projects together, and neither of them needed to be told by the other what to do. If I was one of them right now, what would I see that needs to be done?” Then I knew Mother would hate to paint the paneled closet and bedroom doors. The way things usually go is that we finish the room except the doors, and then the doors are a big pain in the neck and never get done. So I did those, and Mother adored my self-direction and determination. By the time the room was all painted (at 3 a.m.!), the doors were already done. Sometimes I just need to put myself in someone else’s shoes in order to know what to do… my shoes are rarely that smart. 
Speaking of shoes, I’m not the only one who gets covered in paint, as this photo attests. Mother stepped off a chair right into the bucket.
By the way, if you want to know why you don’t want a norovirus, read this. But trust me, you really don't want to know.
Monday, June 25, 2007
It Looks Purple to Me
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4 comments:
Purple, my favorite color, perfect for a girls room. I have 4 boys with rooms that desparately need painting, I wish I could get them to settle on some nice sensible color like purple, or blue. No My monsters want bright red, neon orange, pea soup green and black. Apparently they know nothing about resale value lol. Nice little blog.
Mother? My dear chap, is this 19th century England?
My wife won't let me paint either. She blames my mother for teaching me incorrectly. But, she never has time to do it. That's why we always end up hiring someone to paint the rooms for us.
Jokes about putting one's foot in one's mouth spring to mind, but basically, that's a cool photo! Because I can so much see me doing exactly the same thing.
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