When my crotch parasites came home to discover that my house, had, indeed been turned upside down and two formerly ugly rooms now had lickable colored walls (hey, purple’s a fucking flavor, dammit), they were impressed. I could tell that they had no idea what “painting the walls” meant, because they assumed that somehow The Guy on My Couch and I had painted pictures to put on the walls as well. And if they had any idea what sort of artistic aptitude I have, they’d have known better.
I have to admit, however, that I did appreciate being taken as someone artistic for a moment – even if it was by a four-year old.
Well, the rooms were a gigantic success. Not only am I no longer Furious George when I stare at my walls, slack-jawed and thinking, but they’re actually pleasant to be in.
Of course, there was an unexpected side effect. The moment my children realized that The Guy On My Couch and I hadn’t actually painted pictures, but changed the color of the walls entirely, they began to clamor for us to change their bedrooms, too.
Their bedrooms – two of the rooms that had BEEN previously painted by Your Aunt Becky. Of course. Two of the four rooms I’ve painted, and they wanted to repaint them.
I managed to stall the boys who are in a fierce deadlock between Purple and Green, but my daughter, o! my daughter, she chimed in, asking me to paint her room her favorite color. My heart, of course, grew three sizes and melted into an ooey gooey pile of mush on the floor right at my feet.
That tiny voice said, “Mama, I want a PINK room.”
Oh, my heart. My heart forever walking around outside my body.
Pink has been my favorite color well into my late twenties (I’ve now decided on a more grown-up “blue” as a favorite color, but only barely). As a tot, I loved pink – which horrified my hippie mother, who would’ve preferred that I like a nice brown burlap. I’d have shot someone dead for a pink bedroom (presuming, of course, I had access to a gun, which, hippies don’t like).
Under normal circumstances, I’d have fallen over myself to make this happen. But the room she lives in now? It WAS painted pink. A pink I couldn’t stomach. That room remained shut until I got pregnant with Alex, at which time Daver painted it a nice soft yellow.
My daughter is a rational creature, though, so I knew I could appeal to her logical brain.
“Okay, Mimi,” I said, hoping she’d forget it all. “Would you like me to paint your room instead of buying you a birthday present?”
“YES!” she screamed happily. “I want a PINK ROOM.”
For days, she told everyone we saw – including strangers wandering the aisles at Target looking for baking powder as well as the cashiers at Target – that she was getting a pink room.
So there you have it. For her third birthday, my daughter is getting a pink bedroom. Bubble gum pink if she has her way, which she will. You’re only three once, after all.
I will SO miss that yellow.