When we first decided to move the girls into a bunk bed to free up some space in their room I spent a delightful hour at Pottery Barn Kids drooling over the beautiful shinny white beds they had on display. Everything from the perfectly sculpted headboards to the adorable bedding charmed me and made me dream of tucking my girls into their matching beds.
The sight of the price tag woke me right up and sent me on a wild Internet hunt for a bed that would fulfill my fantasy without draining my wallet.
The bed I finally found was delivered on Friday. In boxes. Unfinished. Nothing like I had dreamed except for the non-wallet draining part.
Instead of pointing the Pottery Barn delivery guy in the direction of the children’s room with one lazy flick of the hand, this weekend found us all in our grungiest clothes, brandishing paint-brushes in the back yard. We slathered the bed in thick white paint, missing a few times and covering each other in almost as much paint as we got onto the wood. Each brushstroke is painfully noticeable and there are dried globs of paint on each lat.
Sleek and shiny it is not.
Yet, this morning my oldest quietly thanked me for letting her help paint the bed. Then the youngest thanked me for letting her help pick the colors. And I let go of my image of the perfect bed.
Their bed won’t be fit for a catalog, it’ll have splotches and odd brush marks. The pink and purple lats probably won’t be the neatest on the block (nor will they match that adorable bedding). But they’ll both feel a sense of ownership and pride over their bed that they would never have felt if I’d laid down my credit card and bought the first bed I saw. It’s just a different kind of perfect.