Work, Oh, Work--Why Are You Always So Hard?

Oh, such frustration. And it's lingering. Usually my mistakes aren't quite so glaringly concrete.

Over the past few weeks I have spent hours of hard manual labor, alternately complicated and tedious, trying to transform the ramshackle attic room of our house into a special playroom for Lily and Annika. Home improvement projects are way out of my comfort zone; I can hammer nails into a wall, and that's about the extent of my regular experience. And this room was in terrible shape. Somebody had shoddily put up a layer of thick, hideous wallpaper, slapped unmatching, uneven layers of paint on wall, stairs and ceiling, and nailed down patches of a filthy, dead-bug-covered carpeting. It was not a beginner's job, but then again, if I'd known that, I never would have started it. And although I'm not finished yet--and today's debacle set me back some, for sure--I have a feeling I'll be glad that I stuck it out, even considering I am typing with my index fingers only right now, due to the open wound on my thumb. Injured in the line of carpet-removal. As you will see.

So in short, this is what I did today. I had rented a heavy-duty carpet cleaner from the grocery store, hoping I might be able to make the carpet, which although white and patched in places, was a sort of wintery white wool and in theory, not totally impossible, if only I could get the stains out. To my surprise, once I'd figured out how to operate the thing, the carpet cleaning machine worked wonders. When I'd finished about half of the space, I stood back at the top of the stairs to assess: not bad at all. I was excited--it seemed that I might actually be able to finish the carpet and paint the stairs before the girls came home from my parents' house, which would be quite a surprise, more than I'd hoped for. Suddenly, I spotted the spray can of blackboard paint I'd bought. Without stopping to think, I decided to use it to paint the inside of the closet I am planning on turning into a secret little reading/clubhouse nook and just started to spray, standing there. When the can was emptied, I told myself I'd pick up another at the hardware store when I went back out later in the day, but then I looked down.

All around me, for four or five feet beyond the floor of the closet, green spray paint had scattered fine droplets on the white rug, heavy nearest the closet, lighter as you headed away. I confess: I cried. I sat at the top of the stairs, and I cried. So much work--and time and money, too--but mostly work, had gone into my project so far, and now this. I was too mad at myself to walk away. Instead, I gathered turpentine, and nail polish remover, and WD 40--anything I could think of to try to get the green paint out. I put some of it in the carpet cleaning machine (sorry, grocery store rental facility) and tried that. I saw that in my efforts I had spread the paint wider and added a couple of green footprints to the now unsalvagable situation. Although I could get quarter-sized spots out by dumping turpentine on the rug, I was beginning to worry that the room was on the verge of spontaneously combusting, which would have suited the mood I was in at the time. I also felt light-headed from the chemicals I had inhaled, which might have affected my judgment as I made my next move.

In one swift motion, I ripped up a corner of the carpet. When I had done this originally, it had looked to me like there was just unfinished plywood underneath. Now I could see there were painted floorboards. I ripped up the rest of it. The floor was in bad shape but I could patch some of the holes, sand some of the damage. First, of course, I would have to rip up the thin strip of wood that had been nailed all around the edge of the room and pull out the hundreds of staples all over the floor. Then, I would have to take on another painting job out of my comfort zone--paint buying, sanding, priming, painting, fixing.

But this was, although I had not thought so in the heat of the moment, a surmountable problem. I had done something rash and thoughtless, yes. But now I could, would, make it better.