Birthing Beautiful Ideas

Once upon a time, there was a little boy who asked his mommy to draw him a picture of a cow.

His mommy, who loved her little boy dearly, was more than happy to pick up a crayon and a fresh sheet of construction paper and draw for him her very best bovine creation.

Upon receiving his mother’s heartfelt gift, the little boy held the drawing at arm’s length, examined it, and stated, “Well, it sorta looks like a cow.” 

He was only two.

And, as you may have guessed, he was (and is) my son, M.

And I was (and am) the artistically-challenged mother in the story.

It should come as little-to-no-surprise, then, that after testing out my priming and painting skills in our new kitchen, I realized that it would be a very good idea if Tim and I could hire someone to paint the house.

You know, just so that no one would say ever anything like, “Well, it sorta looks like you didn’t fingerpaint the place!” 

(You may be wondering how anyone could make priming and painting look that bad, but HELLO, did you not read the above anecdote?!  A two-year-old can even spot my poor skills from a mile away.  Or at least an arm’s length away.)

So, with some hefty generosity coming our way, Tim and were able to hire James.  Or “Super-James,” as I call him.

(Super) James is a local independent contractor who is not only painting our house but has also installed new bathtubs and has agreed to install new lighting in the kitchen.  He’s spectacular and amazing and extremely kind and efficient and totally reasonable, so if you’re looking for a spectacular, amazing, etc. contractor in the Central Ohio region, please send me an email and I can send you James’s contact information.

In any case, while the house is far from completely finished, I thought that I would share a few before-and-after teaser shots.  With the love and hard work not only of Tim and me but also of my parents, my uncle, my brother-in-law, my sister, and yes, the spectacular, amazing, etc. James, our house has come a long way since we bought it–i.e. back on closing day when we found a dog turd in the dining room, the unmistakable black streaks of ghosting on the walls, unidentifiable orange grease-goo on the kitchen ceilings, blood stains underneath the carpet, and ORANGE-FLAVORED KY JELLY LEFT IN THE DRAWER OF THE ONE PIECE OF FURNITURE REMAINING IN THE HOUSE oh-my-lord-there’s-nothing-so-gross-as-finding-a-disgusting-and-filthy-stranger’s-KY-jelly.

(Now you may be wondering, “Why in the HELL did you purchase this house?!”  But just wait and see.  Oh just wait and see.)

Dining Room - BEFORE

Please note: nasty carpet (which is GONE and shall be replaced in just one week) and the black-stained walls, which are cleaned and partially painted and now look like this:

Dining Room - AFTER

Sweet mother of cleanliness!  And you can take that quite literally–my mom and I both scrubbed the ceilings and walls for hours.

Kitchen - BEFORE

This is what the kitchen looked like when the previous owners lived there.  (I won’t even show you the close-up photos I took of the aforementioned unidentifiable orange goo on the ceiling and walls.)

This is what the kitchen looks like with a deep cleaning, some work on the cabinets, and a fresh coat of paint from, you guessed it, Super-James.

Kitchen - AFTER

So the moral of the story?

Next time one of my kids asks me to draw a picture, I’ll say, “Are you sure you don’t want me to hire someone like, say, Super-James to do that?  I mean, I can clean up your crap (literally) like it’s nobody’s business, and, oh yeah, I can install a toilet, little dudes, but I’m not so sure you want me drawing.  Or painting.  Or doing anything that requires an iota of artistic skill.”

Tim and I spent several hours at the house yesterday, and “all” I had to show for it was a nearly-entirely-primed kitchen.

Lesson learned?

Priming takes a long time, especially when one is attempting to cover up lavender trim, “ghosted” walls, and grease-stained ceilings.

But at least the streaky primed walls look better than they did before.  (And that’s a sad and sorry testament to just how bad they looked when we closed on the house.)

In any case, after all that priming–and after an ice cream treat at our favorite local shop–something funny happened on the way back home.

I don’t know if it was the effect of an hours-long subjection to paint fumes or of the utterly splendid cup of cherry lambic sorbet that I ate at Jeni’s Ice Cream, but I had what one might call an “epiphany” about my parenting skills.

And that epiphany left me thinking that I am doing well at this whole mothering thing.

While this in and of itself would not constitute an epiphany for most, it is a big one for me.  And I will be the first to admit that I am hopelessly neurotic about the looming question of “whether or not I am a good mom.”  I am (perhaps to the point of narcissism) constantly concerned about what others think of my parenting skills.  It’s as if I think that any time the kids or I do something that can’t be construed as “parental/child perfection” the words “BAD MOM” are suddenly scrawled across my forehead.

I yell when instead I should take a deep breath and step back a minute?  I’m a BAD MOM!

The kids sometimes whine and scream and throw giant fits?  They must have a BAD MOM!

I don’t practice all of the same methods or techniques that all those other seemingly serene and good-choice-making parents make?  BAD FREAKIN’ MOM!

It’s irrational and silly, I know.  It’s actually beyond irrational and silly.

But as Tim and I were making the journey back from our new house to the house where we currently reside (i.e. Chez My Parents), we started talking about a few of the especially cute things that the kids had done in recent weeks, and I began to recognize just how irrational and silly my bad-mom worries were.

Because I realized that I had been holding an unattainably broad conception of “good parenting.”

For the past three-and-almost-four years, I have been thinking that if I do not excel in every aspect of my parenting, then I am somehow deserving of that dreaded “bad mom” moniker.  That if my kid whines more than the next kid, then I am doing a bad job of meeting his needs.  That if I don’t organize “enough” play dates or read “enough” books to my kids or make sure that they get “enough” vegetables each day, then I am shirking my parental duties.  That if I do not instill the perfect forms and levels of justice and peace and tolerance and respect and love in my children, then I am an absolute failure as a mother.

That if I am not a perfect mother, then I am not a good mother.

And my conversation with Tim last night made me realize that one parent’s version of “good parenting” need not be the standard-bearer of parental success for me.  That it is more than acceptable for me to narrow my focus on a handful of hopes and dreams that I have for my children in order to determine whether or not I’m a “good mom.”

That a lack of perfection need not imply a lack of good parenting.

So what actually gave me that epiphany?

Tim and I were talking about how when M (our 3-year-old) was crying earlier in the day, A (our 16-month-old) stopped dead in his tracks, walked over to M, and wrapped his chubby arms around his brother’s neck.

And then about how when M was not even two, he had comforted a crying friend (a two-year-old girl who had recently moved from Serbia to the U.S. and who was not only unfamiliar with the English language but also partially deaf) by performing a finger puppet show for her.  (He even had his elephant puppet proclaim, “It’s alright, Tara, your mommy will be home soon!”)

And then about the many times that our children have offered up consoling hugs and “it’s okays” and “I love yous” and other kind words to others who have been hurt or sad.  And all without any prodding on our part.  And all (at least presumably) springing forth from the love and kindness and compassion that Tim and I have helped to instill in them.

And reflecting upon all of these events finally told me that one of the primary parenting hopes and goals that I have tried to realize in raising my children–to raise kind and compassionate and loving people–is in the process of being actualized.

And that made me think that I may be an alright mom after all.

These cabinets shout, “CLEAN ME!  SAND ME!  PAINT ME!”

Especially since they looked like this after I removed the hardware:

We found this unidentifiable, possibly toxic goo all over the cabinet faces before we cleaned them.

Holy wall, Batman!  This looks like it’s a job for HANDYWOMAN!  (Well, her and her superiorly-talented and handy Uncle Larry.)

Mmm, spackle looks like raspberry gelato…

Where’d the hole go?!  Where’d it go?!

THE HANDYWOMAN (and her superiorly-talented and handy Uncle Larry) SENT IT STRAIGHT TO HOLE-HELL, THAT’S WHERE IT WENT!

Have I ever mentioned that I helped to INSTALL THIS MIRACULOUS, BEAUTIFUL TOILET?!

My mom discovered the “fruit of the spirit” under the refrigerator.

I guess the spirit likes it some rotten fruit.

He approves of all the hard work we’ve put into the house.

16-month-olds have very high standards, you know.

When last week began, my “handiest” skills were pretty much limited to hammering nails into walls (sometimes crookedly) and pulling nails out of the walls.  Maybe I’d drill a hole here, tighten a screw there, but I had never really undertaken any serious repair projects.  In fact, I was so tool-and-repair-unsavvy that I accidentally referred to a “saw” as a”sword” just last Monday.

(Is it an indication of irony or sheer stupidity that I nonetheless decided to take on this house rehabbing project?  I dunno.)

But when last week ended, I could proudly–very proudly, and very repeatedly–say that I knew how to repair drywall and how to install a toilet.

Measuring and cutting drywall.  Hammering support boards into the wall.  Patching.  Caulking.  Handsaws, screws, nails, and exacto knives.  Wax rings.  Nasty-ass washers and nuts and bolts from the old toilet.  Hooking up the water line to the new toilet.  Attaching the toilet seat and lid.

REPAIRING DRYWALL AND INSTALLING A TOILET, PEOPLE!!!

Have I already mentioned that I am proud of these newly-acquired skills?

And that I like to repeat my “mastery” of them to anyone within listening range?

And so when some guy from the local newspaper (we’ll call him “Dick”)  arrived on my front porch on the night of my repair-conquests and tried to sell me a newspaper subscription by dishing up a very hefty serving of paternalism and sexism, my feminist sensibilities–which were now attached to a person who could REPAIR DRYWALL AND INSTALL A TOILET–became a wee bit enraged.

Dick approached me as my mother and I were conversing with my new next-door neighbor, Cynthia.  Upon discovering that it was I (and not my mother or Cynthia) who was the new home-owner, he identified himself as a employee of the paper and then immediately asked if I was married.

Already, this question annoyed me.  Did the fact that I was married make me more likely to be a literate person?  Someone more interested in keeping up on world affairs?  Or was this question an attempt to direct the salesman to the MAN OF THE HOUSE?

And this question was quickly answered for me because no sooner had I responded that I was, in fact, married, that Dick asked what my husband did for a living.

Not what I did for a living.  Not even whether or not I worked.  Or read.  But what THE MAN OF THE HOUSE did to bring home the bacon. 

I cringed and offered up a wry, “He’s an attorney.”

Dick seemed almost giddy at this response and went on to gush about what my husband is interested in reading and what my husband needs with his morning coffee and how my husband needs me to lock in these subscription rates right now.

And then I–I, who was a FEMINIST WHO COULD NOW REPAIR DRYWALL AND INSTALL A TOILET–burst forth with a wave of disgust and frustration and asked (this) Dick, “Who are you to tell me what my husband is and isn’t interested in?!  Or what he needs?!  How do you know that I don’t want to read the paper?!  What about what I’m interested in?!”

(In my perfect outburst that I re-created in my mind, I also went on to shout at Dick about how if he’s going to go and get on with his bad sexist self why doesn’t he at least try and assume that the little wifey wants those Sunday coupons–which I do by the way–and how I do work and I do appreciate the newspaper and how even if I didn’t have additional work besides raising the kids I might still want to read the paper because stay-at-home moms care about the news too, you jackass and how I now might want to read the classified ads for power tools because I CAN REPAIR DRYWALL AND INSTALL TOILETS, DID YOU KNOW THAT?!)

Dick looked stunned for a moment and muttered something about how he used to work for AIG, but then you know how that went, and now he’s working for the Dispatch selling papers. 

Was that supposed to excuse his sexist assumptions???

Even if his sob-story did leave me feeling an iota of sadness for him–but HEY, at least he has a job in a state with a 10%+ unemployment rate!!!–that iota of sadness was soon swept away when Dick asked to see my left ring finger in an apparent attempt to size up the MAN OF THE HOUSE’S salary and/or my wifely sense of materialism.

What could that possibly tell you about my need for a newspaper subscription, Dick?!

I can REPAIR DRYWALL AND INSTALL A TOILET, Dick.

What’s more, I have a brain in addition to having boobs and a vagina.

A little bit more respect.  Please.

If you’ve seen my first “Monday house update,” you may have noticed that my newly-purchased home needs some sprucing up.

Well, it needs a bit more than some sprucing up.

I suppose that I could be satisfied with the black streaks (or “ghosting“) on the walls.  And with the irreparably stained carpet.  And with the pink cabinets.  And pink countertops.  And pink bathroom fixtures.  (Okay, for financial reasons, I’ll have to be satisfied with some of that pink for a long, long time.  I’ll just have to let it remind me of salmon.  Or cotton candy.  Or Pepto Bismol.)

But something–oh, I don’t know, a desire not to be reminded of the previous owners’ filth and general uncleanliness–tells me that I wouldn’t be happy with blood-stained carpet (yep, totally serious) and grimy walls for long.  I mean, would you want to live in a house that reminded you of The Amityville Horror?

And this is why I have a vision.  A vision for my family’s home.  One that involves both short-term (i.e. relatively inexpensive and/or necessary) and long-term (i.e. more expensive and/or cosmetic) goals. 

Allow me to walk you through some of the components of this vision.

(Let me say first that I am very proud of this vision.  I’m not what you would consider a person with a great sense of style or visual artistry, so for me to cobble together paint colors and trim colors and cabinet colors and kitchen hardware and not make it look like my middle school art projects that Mrs. Browne all but said looked like giant mounds of dog poo is quite a feat.  So if you hate my vision, you can just kiss it.  You and Mrs. Browne both.)

The kitchen

For the kitchen walls, we’ve chosen Koi Pond.  (All of the paint–and yes, the primer–is from Sherwin Williams, who, like all other paint manufacturers, must employ a whole army of folks who just sit and come up with whimsically ridiculous paint color names all day long.)

For those pink cabinets–which are not only wood but also paint-able–we’ve chosen to re-cloak them in Dover White.

And (here’s where I start getting excited and shouting, “DO YOU SEE THAT, MRS. BROWNE?!”) we’d like to replace the kitchen hardware with some sort of pewter (or “pewter-ish”) cabinet knobs and drawer pulls.

Okay, maybe not those knobs.  They’re about $15 a pop.

And then some day–some day far, far in the distance–we’ll replace the countertops (yeah, yeah, I’ll admit it, I salivate over granite countertops) and the floors (goodbye beige linoleum, hello hardwood).

But new wall colors and cabinet colors and hardware will make enough of a world of difference as it is!

The family room

The walls will be painted in August Moon.

The family room sits right next to the kitchen, and I do believe that August Moon and Koi Pond shall be the best of friends.

I’ve also considered replacing the pink tiles surrounding the fireplace (oh yeah, those are pink too) with some sort of glassy amber tiles.  Some day.  Some day…

The dining room

The dining room, along with the foyer and all of the hallways in the house, shall be painted our offical “house neutral” color: Navajo White.

And since the dining room is flanked by the family room and the playroom (or what others will consider to be the formal living room, and what may some day be an office), the Navajo White will be flanked by August Moon and our chosen color for the…

Playroom

…that is, Latte.

(I’ve noticed that the colors as they appear on my computer screen are not exact replicas of the “real life” colors.  To get a better idea of how these colors look in more natural lighting–of which we have plenty, hooray!–you can check out the Color Visualizer on Sherwin Williams’ website.)

And finally, some day–some day far, far in the future–I’d like to replace all of the trim (the baseboards, the door trim, and maybe even some crown molding) with cherry-stained wood.

I know, Mrs. Browne, isn’t that AWESOME?!

Tim and I have recently purchased our first home.  In fact, we closed on it just last Wednesday.

The adventure itself–what with the appraisals and the inspection and the financing and the pleading and cajoling to get the mid-divorce sellers to pay for a repair or two before closing–was harrowing enough.  And I’m glad that it’s over.

But another adventure has just begun.  Because the house is so filthy (which we already knew) and so in need of some minor (and some major) repairs that we have quickly found ourselves smack dab in the middle of a house rehab. 

And this adventure, much unlike the actual purchase of the home, has been exciting.  Exhilarating even.  And tremendously satisfying.  (At least the first weekend of it.  Ha.)

My plan is to provide weekly updates of this exciting and satisfying adventure here so as to take my friends and family and other readers on this journey with us. 

Obviously, I could create an entirely separate blog for this endeavor, but that just seems like far too much for me to juggle at the moment.  I am, after all, writing my disseration and raising two kids and certifying to become a doula and a lactation educator and writing a blog and rehabilitating a home.  I can hardly keep track of two separate email accounts let alone two blogs.

So I suppose that Birthing Beautiful Ideas will soon become a blog devoted to parents who are interested in childbirth and VBAC, are married to marathon trainers, and who are crazy enough to take on the task of rehabilitating a home.

A truly vast audience if there ever was one.

In any case, even if this adventure doesn’t necessarily involve giving birth to a beautiful idea, we–Tim, myself, and my family, who are are already essential and amazing parts of this rehab team–are giving birth to a truly beautiful home.

I hope.

But for now, it’s in rehab.  Like, “heroin addict who’s shivering, vomiting, and shaking in bed” rehab.

Just see for yourself.

It’s really a magnificent space.  But look at that carpet.  The filth.  The grime.  And this picture doesn’t even do it justice.  I wouldn’t be surprised if this carpet hadn’t seen a vacuum cleaner in years.  Or if the owners liked to run through a pile of dog poo and then smear it onto their floors.  Or if they didn’t give a crap (pun intended) about letting their dogs pee and poo on the floors.

See that black liquid?  That’s a bleach and water solution.  And it turned that color after I washed just two vents in it.

Sweet, spectacular cleanliness.  This vent, and this wall, and these baseboards were black–black I tell you–before my mom and I got our hands on them.

How many times one ever heard someone say, “Hey, that house looks so much better with no carpet and just the padding on the floors!”?  (Many thanks to my father, who heroically removed two floors worth of carpet this past weekend.  And who, I should  mention, found a dried puddle of blood under the carpet in one of the upstairs bedrooms.)

One final thought after this first week of rehab-ing?

Bleach.  

Bleach.  

Bleach is my friend.