It took a really long time to figure out what was making me drag my heels with respect to converting my son's former bedroom into the studio I've been yapping about for months. I couldn't decide on the color, the weather was not conducive to painting, etc. Yesterday I finally just hit a wall. I was tired of not having a place to work. I stomped out to the garage, gathered my painting materials and primer, then threw on my paint-strewn clothes. I marched into the studio, stirred the primer, and got on the step stool to start cutting in primer near the ceiling. I just stood there, looking up at the words that I had painted around the room when I was very pregnant with my son, the child I struggled to have after being an infertility patient for seven years and losing three of five pregnancies. The child for which I endured 4-1/2 months in bed on medications to stop pre-term labor during the OJ Simpson trial (there was NOTHING on TV and the meds made me shake so much that TV was all I could manage).
I had read a children's story wherein one critter friend made a commitment to the other, the words of which I tweaked a bit, but which were my own commitment to my son that I painted on the walls around the entire room. The walls read, "I will show you the moon and the stars at night. I will show you with earth with no shadows. We will dance in the meadows and creep through the woods and whisper secrets in the dark."
We did. When he was a toddler and preschooler, he would frequently wake up during a thunder storm. I'd find him wandering through the house, not frightened, but to get a better look. Together, we'd sit on the floor in the living room, leaning on the fireplace wall and snuggle in a blanket, quietly watching lightening until the storm passed, whispering our report card of the individual flashes of light, then we'd both quietly go back to bed. He'd run outside when I called for him to see a gorgeous sunset or the wild parrots flying overhead (or the crows which I swear only fly one direction!), or lie down with me on the deck with pillows and blankets during meteor showers (both of us scared to death with the sounds of stomping critters nearby, but not wanting to miss "a big one"). We walked through meadows and woods on trips to Yosemite and Mammoth Lakes. OK, Daddy and I walked and Kevin would run yelling and chasing, "A bird!" or "Hey, can I pet your dog?" to any passerby with a pooch.
Painting over the words felt like erasing all of this, much like painting Erica's room when she moved out made me cry, recalling similar emotions and memories. Kevin is 14 now and still likes hanging out with the family (although not as much as he loves playing World of Warcraft until his IQ has dropped a dozen points), but the last vestige of his little boy years was primed over during an almost poetic storm. I cried before the first brush stroke, then rested my forehead on the wall and really cried for a few more minutes. My poor husband came in the room offering me wine. I think it was only about 2:30 or 3:00 in the afternoon. I said no, the civilized thing that I am (barely :-) and told him to go away. I cried a little longer, then primed the room as fast as I could and not as neatly as I normally would. To hell with the paint I dripped on the carpet; I'll take care of that later. I needed to do it while I still had the ability to see through my rapidly melting mascara.
It's done. Priming, that is. I went into the room a while ago and didn't cry. Of course I did a moment ago while writing, but I didn't in the room. Eventually I'll have the studio finished and it will be my room again, as it was before he was born. Then, while he's at school, I'll get the same bronze paint and sneak into his current room, and paint this phrase at the bottom of the inside of one of his closet doors. He's fourteen. He won't notice, but I'll feel better.
And I'll have a studio again.
