Home Improvements

Last spring (or maybe winter) my parents gave me a bench from their dining room table. They bought the bench at an unfinished furniture store that was near a soccer field where I played in grade school. Needless to say, the bench is a borderline antique - except that where the Antiques Roadshow people might like to see "patina" what we have is a foot rail (actually, maybe we weren't supposed to put our feet on there?) scraped to the bare wood. My father recommended that I paint the bench, since it was unlikely to take stain evenly given its worn condition.

Like a moron, I mentioned to the kiddies that I was going to paint the bench. Since that moment, I have been asked every single day by at least one if not all three kiddies "When are we going to paint the bench?" Even when we were away from the summer, if they saw a bench of any kind they would say "When we get back to our house, can we paint the bench?" During the spring and summer it was too hot or too humid or we were too far away. So far this fall it has been too hot or they have been too busy. But when I heard the weather forecast for dry sunny weather today, I decided that it was time to paint the bench.

Like a moron, I mentioned to the kiddies that we were going to paint the bench today. Between every bite of their breakfast they asked "Is it time to paint the bench?" Every time they needed to do something they checked in with me "I need to go to the bathroom, please don't paint the bench until I get back."

Finally, I got the bench out the door and found a square of sandpaper for each of them. The sanding was a bonus chore that they had not been expecting, and they took to it with such enthusiasm, they probably could have removed all of the stain if I'd asked them. Equally fascinating and enjoyable was the wiping off of the dust with a wet rag. I had to repeatedly tell them that it was clean enough, but we would likely still be outside wiping it down if some neighbors hadn't come by to play. I managed to strong arm them inside by telling them that the bench had to dry or we'd never be able to paint it.

When the neighbors left, the kiddies sat down on the floor of the carport to eat lunch next to the bench, perhaps in fear that I would paint it while they were shoveling down a turkey sandwich (at this point the 11 songs of the High School Musical soundtrack had been playing on a continuous loop all morning).

With lunch done and the treats polished off, I made the announcement that it was time to start painting, except that I couldn't paint with the High School Musical soundtrack on. The bench painting day may be memorable as the one time in my life that they ever turned it off without protest.


Little paint contractors they are not. Marty had the first turn with the roller, but he wasn't a huge fan, because he wasn't pressing it hard enough to get it to roll. He soon traded with Lauren, and then proceeded to spend a half hour and half a can of paint brushing the same spot on the seat. Repeatedly dipping the brush in the paint and then brushing in little circles over and over again. Turning the paintbrush bristles into the hair of an angry demonic clown. Whenever I tried to get him to paint with the grain or another part of the bench, he would just look at me as if I were a little slow and say, "I need to paint the seat."


Lauren took the roller next and refused to roll with the grain of the wood, no matter how many times I showed her how to do it. On the few occasions when she did roll it rather smoothly, Marty and his clown brush would spring into action and redo the circular streaks. Aislinn decided to do some detail work while she waited for her turn with the roller, so she went to find a little paintbrush and came back with one the size of a nail polish brush. When I suggested that the brush might be a little small, she went and traded it in for a brush that came in a water color set. When it was finally her turn for the roller, she used it everywhere, even on the spindles (which I told Lauren were called spokes, and she was calling them strokes, and now that she's gotten that straightened out I'll have to teach her the right word tomorrow).

The paint was supposed to be burgundy. In fact, the name of the paint shade is "Wine Tasting." However, the paint in the can was a rather bright, cheery, and bold magenta. All of the neighborhood girls who stopped by thought we had chosen a wonderful color. I was a little concerned, but judging from the dried puddles of paint all around the painting area, if we get enough coats on the bench, it probably will look the right color. Unfortunately, I don't think we are going to have enough paint to get enough coats on the bench. So any of you lucky enough to be coming to dinner may find yourselves in a seat of honor on the streaky, bumpy, drippy, magenta bench.

Of course, the crappy paint job is worth it, because I've never seen them have so much fun when snow cones or bathing suits were not involved. I had no expectations of perfection, so everything they did made me laugh. In fact, I'm almost ready to try to think of something else we could paint. Of course, I've learned my lesson and will not be mentioning it to them until 15 seconds before we start.

Cute pictures will follow tomorrow. Blogger won't upload them although it keeps claiming that it has. Pain the the @#$%.