decorating

Even though our children are no longer babies or toddlers, it is nigh on impossible to undertake home projects. When John and I are knee-deep in some construction, the boys will find a way to infiltrate our workspace or demand our attention. My rational brain says, "They just want to see what's going on," but they never simply ask if they can watch us work. We'll even give the boys carte blanche to gorge themselves on television while we're trying to get something done, and still we're rarely allowed to proceed.

We're trying to get the boys involved. Let them hold tools, whack a nail with the hammer, and the like. Sure there are fewer interruptions that way, but it takes forever to finish projects. For example, a project that would take the average person an hour to finish, might have us tied up for an afternoon; an afternoon project would take us a weekend; a weekend project—no dice!

Currently, we are in the midst of rearranging the studio (our living room), a multiple weekend project that involves rehanging framed art, moving bookcases (emptied of books), building furniture, bundling cables and cords, and cleaning up all the little styrofoam pieces and broken-down boxes. Thus far, we have rehung the art, moved the bookcase, and built a desk. The putting-it-all-back-together and clean-up stages are upon us. Once we're finished, I'll endeavor a before-and-after slideshow.

Until then, you'll have to admire the new paint job in the kitchen.


(above: the best before photo in my possession, that's my brother, Jeff; below: after)

Years ago, while at the neighborhood paint store, I bought a can of blackboard paint, even though I had no idea what I would do with it. The can sat on a shelf until, one day, I had the inspiration to use it on a load-bearing column in our kitchen—the perfect place for the grocery list, for writing notes, for the children to doodle. I told John about my plan. He taped a border to define the paint area, and for at least two years, the blue tape has taunted and mocked our inability to execute a twenty minute—thirty minutes, tops—project.

On Sunday, after a twenty-five mile bike ride, my pal Bonnie, said, "Say, what are you doing at 2:15 today?" This felt like a trick questions so I stuttered, "Uh, stuff." "Oh, well, I was going to see if you're available to paint a blackboard," she said. Oh, well, in that case, I'm totally available.

Bonnie mixed the paint, poured it in the tray—yes, we've had all the gear for years—and started painting. The boys were drawn to this precise, tight spot in the kitchen like flies on a puddle of honey. Natch. After Winston kicked over the tray and we got the paint cleaned off the floor, we installed them on stools so they could watch, which proved fortuitous. When the painting became awkward for the adults, we had the boys step in and take a few turns rolling on paint, which they loved. The first coat looked streaky and awful, not very promising, and, even though the paint would dry in thirty minutes, you're required to wait four hours before applying another coat. Then Winston, accidentally, placed his hand on the wall. He happily covered his handprint. Bonnie and I cracked a couple Shiners and chit-chatted for awhile.

Four hours and change later, I rolled on the second coat of paint, enduring the wet-dog scent the first coat was still off-gassing. And, thirty minutes later, the moment of truth was revealed—no need for a third coat. The second application had dried to a rich, matte black. Even without its blackboard function, the color is a stunning contrast to the sage green paint and knotty pine paneling that adorns the kitchen. In a few days we'll get to write on the wall, and I'm pretty excited!

I've spent some time looking through notebooks for the list where I'd written "paint blackboard" so that I might cross the item off, but it doesn't look like I've written it down anywhere. Not even a "encourage John to paint blackboard." Finishing this paint job, still, gave me a sense of accomplishment. Look out Martha...