I’ve spent last weekend, every evening this week and this weekend, so far, working.  I’m painting, pushing furniture around, organizing books by size and color (I know, scary), putting up or taking down light fixtures,  vacuuming like mad, sticking on flower adhesives, putting up curtains, cleaning up 10-year-old dust bunnies,  storing away items in huge plastic tubs…you name it.  I’m like the Do-It-Yourself channel on steroids. 

I find it therapeutic. 

Ever since March my oldest daughter has been rubbing her hands with glee anticipating inheriting her brother’s room when he left for college.  Now that it’s actually happened I want both girls to have great rooms to enjoy.  I’ll keep up that pie-in-the-sky wish that they’ll sleep by themselves some day.

I had a friend accuse me of re-decorating my son’s room before the bed had even cooled off.  Color me guilty.  I sure can’t continue to walk by and see my son’s empty room with his scattered belongings, since that just makes my heart hurt. 

So, I continue to sand, scour, tape, scrub, rearrange and adhere until this pain goes away.

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