Emma Grace’s room is coming along. We finally managed to strip off the first layer of the border, leaving the icky yellow backing on the wall. That refused to be removed. I sanded it, Bill sanded it, my father sanded it, my mother treated it with a wallpaper remover gel and then tried peeling it off. Finally she, too, sanded it.
Then we spackled it, and spackled it, and spackled it. And sanded that. And then some.
Satisfied that it was as smooth as it’s going to get, Bill painted it with primer. He did the same where we had scraped the chunks of evil off the sloped ceilings. And then we were ready to paint.
So last Monday evening, after the children were tucked into bed, Bill and I took Jars of Clay (courtesy of our c.d. player) up to the bedroom and began to paint. I was doing the trim with a little brush, and Bill had the roller.
We had been working for about half an hour when William poked his head into the room, requesting permission to extend his reading time. We granted it and invited him to read on the bed in the room where we were painting. In no time, he had found a roller and joined in.
He enjoyed turning the walls from their periwinkle blue to the palest pink, not so much because he likes pink (I’m pretty sure he hates it), but because the entire process was, to quote him, “Satisfying. Very satisfying.”
I have to agree with him. It is very satisfying, much in the way that mowing the lawn is satisfying, or cutting someone’s hair is satisfying, or, say, vacuuming. It’s nice to leave everything so clean and neat and fresh.
But we haven’t painted since Monday night. It would be more satisfying, if only we could finish it.
