The Garden of Bloody Baby Hands

When we first bought our house, the master bedroom was unlivable for anyone whose name wasn’t Shrek. (If you’ve forgotten its glory days, feel free to revisit them.) It looks fantastic now, of course, and we’ve been sleeping in there for months. But before we got to that point, David and I were camping out in the larger of the other two bedrooms.

Which looked like this:

And I tell you what, brother, the longer we slept in that room, the more I despised the person who had most recently “decorated” it.

SWEET MEPHISTOPHELES WHAT WERE YOU PEOPLE THINKING

No. Just no.

Once the master bedroom was finished enough that we could move our bed in there, we closed the door on this room and ignored it as much as possible. It has been nothing more than a storage space–and a bedroom for my mom when she visits, bless her tolerant-of-hideous-paint-jobs heart–for the better part of a year. I had big plans for it but could not muster the energy to do anything about them.

Granted, there was that whole pregnancy thing, followed closely by that whole newborn thing, with that whole toddler thing thrown in there too, but still. To have left it as is for as long as we have is embarrassing.

Well guess what. It’s better now. Much better. A thousand times better. So much better that I keep peeking in just because it makes me happy to see it looking clean and bright and not like a demented kindergarten project.

…but you’ll have to wait till tomorrow to see.

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