The Great Paint Catastrophe

My husband is amazing. Truly. He stays home with the kiddos, fixes all the random things that break around the house, and can operate a sewing machine like it’s nobody’s business.

But a master painter?

Absolutely not.

Please, my love, for the sake of our sanity—put down the paintbrush.

To be fair, he did a great job last week painting the kitchen cabinets. They look chef’s kiss perfect. Except, you know… for the dark blue paint splatters all over the walls.

“We’re painting the walls anyway,” he says.

Cue my involuntary eye roll.

Fast forward to today. We go to Menards, pick out paint. Grandma and Grandpa (literal saints) take the kids trick-or-treating. The perfect setup for a productive, peaceful painting day.

And then—chaos.

Not once. Not twice. But three times my husband manages to dump paint on the floor. Not a drip, not a little splatter—full-on puddles of paint.

We’re mid–first coat when he looks at me and says, “I’m going to get the sprayer.”

Oh God. Please no!

I tell him, “If you do that, you’re going to make a mess and we’ll have to touch up everything.”

“No, no. I’ll use the little one,” he insists. “It’ll be fine. I won’t do the edges.”

Surrrre.

He makes a mess. Obviously.

I’m feeding the baby, and I say, “Give me a minute and I’ll touch up the windows” (which, by the way, are dark blue). Pheebs finishes eating, and I walk into the kitchen only to find—dark blue paint. Everywhere.

Around the trim, the counters, the walls, the soul of our home.

“Well, now we have to touch up the white,” he says cheerfully.

Dearest husband, I adore you. But please. For the love of all things home improvement—do not touch the blue paint anymore.

“I’m just doing the white,” he promises.

I am worried. Deeply, spiritually worried.

Because at this rate… I will be touching up paint in the kitchen forever.

Confidently winging it—powered by chaos and caffeine