As the moving van pulled away from our front door that day, I could hardly believe that we had purchased our very first home (and, as Spouse very definitely assured me sometime later), our last.  Modest, unassuming and wearing a woebegone look stemming from years of neglect, it was nevertheless something we had dreamed of for years---and now ours!

Before the last crate was unpacked, excited friends and relatives began arriving, all eager to inspect our “bargain.”  Guided proudly by the children, they swarmed through the premises, crashing into each other in the narrow hallways and exclaiming over the out-dated kitchen.   “What marvelous possibilities!” one loyal friend enthused.  “How….interesting,” murmured another, but what could one say about a house whose most interesting feature was the bilious mustard color of its complete interior?

Soberly, Spouse and I assured each other that we would take our time, look over the house very thoroughly and begin our renovation with one room at a time.  “Even if we complete just one area each year,” we promised faithfully, “we’ll do it right.”

A few weeks later, Spouse staggered downstairs wearing a dazed and shocked look.  “I have inspected this entire barn from stem to stern,” he whispered hoarsely, “and there’s not a square inch that doesn’t need something.”  His glassy-eyed expression hinted that this was not the moment for me to launch into my rhapsody about the “stunning view” or the “endless potential.”  Clearly, we had to begin.

As our first project got underway, we found still another area in which we were incompatible.  My idea of “doing a room right” involved tuning in to the Home and Garden Cable Channel for a few demonstrations, choosing a color scheme and tossing some plants around.  Spouse’s idea of “taking our time” was to plaster a crack every third Tuesday.  It soon became taken for granted that I would capably manage my share of the decorating while at the same time diapering the baby and, keeping up with groceries and emails.  However, when Spouse began a project, I was expected to stand by as resident surgical assistant, handing him various tools, racing to the hardware store for missing materials and keeping kids and hamsters at a respectful distance.

Somehow we muddled through our first few projects, and collected some unexpected dividends in the process.  Spouse assembled an impressive array of tools, some of which he actually learned to use.  When asked by new acquaintances what my hobbies were, I could respond airily, “I paint,” neglecting to mention that my most creative endeavor to date was the inside of the linen closet.  The children also added to their stockpile of memorable moments.

“Remember when Dad took down the kitchen cabinets?” one son mused recently.

“Yeah!” exclaimed another.  “Wasn’t it cool when the ceiling fell down all around us?”

Living in this house has taught me the true concept of eternity: the work will never be finished.  And yet, surveying the yard, I am reminded that Mother Nature redecorates the entire outdoors each year, and she doesn’t get discouraged.  Surely I too can be patient as our house slowly buds, little by little blossoming into its own shiny spring.

There is just one problem with this theory, I admit, as Spouse calls, “Who left the lid off my primer paint?”  As far as I know, Mother Nature never had a husband.