Don and I have never been people who demanded perfection from our physical environment. In fact, what attracted us to our 1900 Victorian cottage was its myriad imperfections–the slightly slanted floors, the bumps on the walls, the occasional nick here or scratch there. And while we endeavor to make our space as inviting as we can, we understand that there is beauty in imperfection.
Those who have been in or seen photos of our home know of its color: the red kitchen (that used to be yellow); the coffee-colored livingroom (that used to be blue); the yellow-green hallway (that used to be gray). And those who know me know that every paintbrush stroke has been my own. Painting the inside of our home (twice over) has been as aesthetically pleasing as it has been spiritually nourishing.
And painting the boys’ playroom was no exception. I came across a textured paint in a calming shade of bluish-green that I thought would be just perfect for their playroom. With every brush stroke, I thought of the car races, coloring, and conversation that would occur in that room. I did not imagine finding this:
That’s Oscar’s handiwork–his name written in crayon that I only just discovered today but can date at about a year old based on the penmanship. I looked at it and thought for a moment what combination of chemicals might remove the set-in crayon marks–because even though we appreciate the imperfections of our home, we don’t condone writing on the walls.
But then I stopped and decided instead to photograph it and write about it and for now leave it right where it resides because the time will come soon enough when the room will once again become a den for Don and me, and the paint job I will most assuredly treat it to will cover all evidence that the boys ever played there. And given the pit in my stomach that thought leaves me with tells me I better preserve this memory and fast.