My new bathroom is nearly done. Nearly. I had high hopes for finishing off the painting this weekend (I've told my contractor I'll do the painting; he hates doing it, and I don't mind) so yesterday, full of vim and vigour (or something) I set up shop and got to it. Nearing the end, I noticed that the second coat was drying kinda funny in spots. I finally looked at the can: I'd been working with the primer, instead of the final paint.
Ya know, when it's already done, it's done. It's like a broken glass. It's just broken. No sense getting worked up about stuff you can't change. Of course that meant I had to spend today painting. Again. With the right stuff. I am rapidly joining my contractor on the I Hate To Paint bench.
The Poor Sod showed up midday to take the boys for lunch. We broke up a couple of years ago, but the man is a class A step-dad. As they returned and dawdled a bit, I laughingly (but not really) suggested he give me a hand. He's a great painter; he's an artist at heart, and that counts when you have little persnickety detail work to do.
I got an hour out of him. He wrecked his new jeans. I told him he was gonna wreck them, and offered him some sweats, but he told me he wouldn't wreck them. Within ten minutes, he'd wrecked them. He did the cutting in, I did a half-hearted job of rollering. We managed to cover up all the stupid primer I'd put on, and we chatted about the kids. I have a big trip coming up, and I've been nervous about going. He promised to hang out while I'm away. Due to a bit of an age gap between us (shut up), the boys have always felt close to him. He's more big brother-y than Dad, and they get along famously.
The upside is that the boys love having him around, and don't feel like someone is checking up on them. They welcome it. I'll be gone nearly two weeks - which is the longest, ever. And no matter how old your kids are, they're still your kids.
Maybe I'll leave the painting until I get back...