The Day I Kicked the Bucket

I have a sordid relationship with paint. It runs in my family, really. My brother Pat once kicked a bucket of paint down the stairs whilst “helping” my sister-in-law, Jane. He was quickly relieved of his duties. We later suspected that was part of his master plan.

My paint relationship started shortly after we moved into our new house. I was eight months pregnant and we flew in Jamie’s sister Tammy (an interior designer) to help piece it all together. We anticipated she would hang a few pictures here, put our furniture there, etc. Before we knew it, we were engulfed in a full-on Extreme Makeover, with paint, scaffolding and a general disaster area on our hands.

Because I was pregnant, I was relegated to food prep. Tammy and my mother-in-law were busy painting our dining room as I busied myself in the kitchen. Upon completion, I grabbed their plates, turned the corner, called out “Lunch is ready…” and then BAM, I kicked something. Hard. Before I could react, the bucket of paint flew in the air, landing on our brand-new golden carpet. The bucket of deep, deep, deep red paint. In my defense, I couldn’t even see my feet, let alone the dumb paint can!

It took 10 rolls of paper towels and an extractor to get rid of it. Today, that conspicuous spot sports a lovely rose tint; a blazing reminder that I can never chastise my children if they spill on the carpet.

That said, I have been taping off our room (in my sickly state, I might add) in preparation for tomorrow’s paint-fest. Then Jamie, my loving, sensitive and devoted husband made the following announcement:

“Now, this is not directed at anyone. But I would like to issue a decree that there will be no spilling of red paint on tan carpet tomorrow.”

Don’t be surprised if, after a comment like that, he’ll be the next one to kick the bucket….

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