SETTLING INTO LIFE CHANGES

Fresh Paint: A Reconfigured Family Creates a New Life

Revolution can begin with a paintbrush

Seized by an impulse, I asked my son yesterday if he’d ever like to change the color of his room. When we moved here, he was six, and he chose the circus-like color scheme — with bold blue, red, and green stripes. He responded to my question with a solid “maybe,” and with that, we were off to buy paint. An hour later we were moving furniture and sanding stripes.

We don’t mess around.

Today, as the painting began in earnest, I grew nostalgic. How could we possibly need to repaint? We just moved in. I just painted this room. But, as I began to count on my fingers, I realized it’s been almost six years.

Six years since we moved. Six years since I upended my kids’ lives and started us on a path of uncertainty. Six years of (mostly) happiness and peace.

To keep the kids’ lives intact as much as possible after the pending divorce, I bought a house several blocks from where we lived with their dad and where he would stay. A true fixer-upper. A mid-century modern ranch with a kitchen that had been updated badly sometime in the ’70s and original, teeny ’50s bathrooms: one pink (every surface) and one yellow (every surface). Lots of panelling, ugly fixtures, and cheap carpeting. The realtor remarked that the hallway looked like an office corridor. She was right: it was all panelling and doors. And did I mention the baby blue siding? Hideous. But I fell in love with the high ceilings, quirky layout, large windows, and pocket doors. In spite of its warts, the house felt right. At least to get us started.

That feeling was not shared by the kids, then six and 12. The most wrenching moment of my life was when I took them to see the house for the first time. They had just learned of the impending divorce, and I wanted them to see where we would be living to give them a sense of certainty. But where I saw potential, they saw ruin and shameful disrepair. This house did not compare to our neat brick colonial a few blocks away. The pure horror on their faces broke my heart. They said nice things, but their eyes told me that — for the first time — they doubted me.

In the four weeks between possession and move-in, I worked at a supernatural pace to counteract their doubts. Spurred on by the knowledge that I was doing the right thing and the need to make our new house a home, I made each room ours, with fresh paint, new fixtures, and lots of Ikea furniture. The kids chose their own color schemes (complex, of course — we watched a lot of HGTV), and I painstakingly executed them. I would work eight hours each workday, pick up the kids, make dinner, help with homework, and then zoom to the new house to tape, paint, clean, stain, build, and fix for four or five hours each night. Just thinking about that pace makes me tired now. (At that time, Motrin was not yet a substantial percentage of my daily diet, and naps were unheard of.)

I painted night after night alone to the beat of the “Wicked” soundtrack — mostly because I kept forgetting to bring another CD. I belted out the lyrics as I painted six rooms — including four torturous coats in the cathedral-ceilinged, thirsty-paneled family room. I was stalled briefly by a bout of bronchitis (too many paint fumes) and carpal tunnel. But, even then, in the back of my head, I kept hearing Elphaba singing, “…nothing’s gonna bring meeee down!”

I worked through my massive spreadsheet of tasks, times, and expenses like a dervish. Bought a wood front door and stained it, picked out new toilets, found new hardware for the tired bathroom cabinets, which my sister-in-law helped me paint. For several weeks that summer, there was not a department at the Home Depot that didn’t know me by name.

While I tended to the “easy” stuff, my amazing brother gutted and remodeled the Z-bricked, Formica-clad kitchen into a sleek, modern space — while working 60 hours a week in a GM factory. He re-routed the plumbing and electrical. He plastered. He worked miracles daily and without complaint. He and my petite sister-in-law installed the new cabinets like pros. And when they were done with the kitchen, they drove me back to the store, told me to pick out a color for my bedroom, and made me sit down while they painted it. They insisted that I have a haven of my own. Thinking of their help now still brings tears of gratitude to my eyes.

The result was spectacular — in its own way. The house was transformed — enough. It would see us through a few years until we could move to something grander.

Since then, we’ve done a lot of living here. We have hosted family events (including my dad’s last Thanksgiving), endured various illnesses, survived unexpected unemployment, played Wii karaoke until our sides ached with laughter, enjoyed cozy Christmases by the fireplace, played many games of basketball in the driveway, and, last year, we hosted my daughter’s graduation party. So many good memories. The family room walls are no longer bare; they’re covered with happy vacation photos — snapshots of adventure and family bonding.

Over the years, the bathrooms have been rejuvenated (with more thanks to my brother for transforming the godawful yellow one). A few of the 60-year-old windows have been replaced. The front yard was landscaped. A beautiful new concrete patio was poured. It is truly home, and, except for that infernal blue siding, we love it.

Today, as my son and I painted, I noticed a bright line of white along a seam of the wall that I painted intense lime green last go-round. “Look at that, Chris,” I said. “See that line? That shows that the house has been settling.”

It took a moment, but the thought finally blossomed: Settling, indeed. THIS is home. Let others have their walk-in closets, ballroom-sized bathrooms, and neat brick colonials. I’ll take my funky ranch with its poor insulation and warm memories. This house is part of us, part of our story.

And, yet, it’s still a work in progress. So much to do. So much change ahead. So many rooms to re-do.

With that thought, I raise my brush: Here’s to fresh paint.

© Tina L. Smith, 2020. Written in 2012 in my journal. Spoiler: the summer after writing this, I took up the paintbrush again and painted every inch of the exterior siding. Bye, bye, blue.