Gray (or Something Like It)

I admit it: everything takes me forever.  I have been in my house for three years and still haven't put up curtains in our family room.  I am still using end tables I "borrowed" from my mother.  And I am still mulling over the paint color.  Oh, the paint color.

Sadly, this is not my house.  Click here to see more of it.

For about a year after we moved in I was totally fine with our gray walls.  Gray is *everywhere* in our house--the entire family room, up the stairs, the entire upstairs hallway.  You simply can't look anywhere without seeing it.  Well, after about a year, I was D-O-N-E.

Don't get me wrong, I don't have a problem with gray generally, not even gray walls.  In High School I even designed an all-gray house in my interior design class, which clearly proves that I am a prescient genius when it comes to color trends.  I am absolutely thrilled to my core that people are using more gray.  But like any color, it has a million different personalities depending on the room it's in, the shade of gray, the light, the other elements of the room, and a bazillion other factors.  It can be dark and moody or light and airy, or even earthy.

Or, as in my house, gray can have all the personality of a cinder-block prison cell.  This particular color makes me feel like I live in Arkham Asylum.  I must change it.  I just need to find the perfect beige and start painting.  Easy breezy.  Except I cannot find the perfect beige, and after weeks (okay, months) of looking at patchwork walls I am really getting tired of this process.  I have tried no fewer than 15 colors.  But everything I try is too light...too dark...too pink..too yellow...too gray...sigh.  Am I just super picky?

Have your walls ever looked like this?  For six months?
Oh...well, guess it's just me then.

The good news: I think I finally found the color.  This room has been my inspiration for the last two years:

Photo: Rachel Reider Interiors

Out of sheer desperation I finally emailed the very talented woman who designed this room, Rachel Reider, who was kind enough to write me back and share the color she used: Pismo Dunes by Benjamin Moore.  You likey?  I am running out right now to get a sample.  Cross your fingers for me and hope it looks as good in my room as it does in hers.  Now, all I need is three more years and maybe I will get around to hanging some curtains.

Worst. Mommy. Ever.

Dear Diary,

I'm writing today because I can't bear to speak publicly about winning the award for Worst Mommy Ever.  It has been four days and I can only just now speak about what happened.  You see, I was running errands.  It used to be that running errands was kind of fun and felt productive.  I would plan my route according to what really needed to get done, and, four or five stores later, I would get around to the fun stuff.  Then I would come home after six or so hours, laden with bags and happy.

These days, "running errands" means planning one or two stops around snack time, meal time, and nap time.  It means no more than an absolute max of three stores or else I will break my back from lifting two big boys and a double stroller in and out of the car twice per stop.  It means sweating no matter the weather, because it is hard work.  It means making a judgment call based on everyone's mood, and planning on using every public restroom in sight, even if we just got in the car and I just asked "do you need to pee?" and I was just told "No!"  It means coming home with whole milk and forgetting everything else.

So Thursday morning I had two goals: go to the grocery store to pick up some posterboard, then take a longish drive up to a paint store in my endless quest for the perfect beige paint color.  This should not be that difficult, right?  So we go to the grocery store and emerge with a large package of posterboard, two balloons which are free for kids at our store, a Grande Skinny Chai from the Starbucks conveniently (and devilishly) located inside, and I even remembered both children.  We make it to the car even though I have no free hands, and everyone manages to get in.  The posterboard, the boys, the stroller, the balloons.  Even the Chai.  This is like thirty minutes after we go in for one thing.  Littlest Boo has a death grip on the balloons and screams like a banshee when I try and remove them from his fat little hands, so I go around to strap in Biggest Boy first.  And off we go!

Twenty-five minutes, five miles of Interstate, and mucho traffic later we get to our destination.  I go around to get LB first, and he's not buckled in.  He's not buckled in!  My heart dropped in my chest, my thoughts started racing and I just started praising God that he was safe.  Apparently out loud, because Biggest Boy starts saying, "Thank the LORD, Mommy, Thank the LORD!"  Which made me laugh enough to calm down.  But still.  This was not a short drive, and it wasn't just around the block.  I cannot believe that I forgot to strap my baby in the car, and besides compulsively checking his buckle for the last four days, I have also been mentally punching myself in the face.

So, that's how I was nominated for Worst Mommy Ever.  Want to know how I won?

The next day I asked That Daddy to go to the liquor store for some Schnapps.  Biggest Boy desperately wanted to go, so he went along in spite of my husband's protests that he was just going to the "adult store" (Stop that snickering!  Minds out of the gutter!")  So they walk in and BB yells, "Hey!  This isn't an 'adult store!'  Mommy brings me here all the time!"

True, if "all the time" is the same as "once a year."  But still, officially the worst.  Ever.  So Diary, thanks for listening.  And don't tell anybody!