In which I discover I don't enjoy painting walls

Our upstairs bathroom has been, for the last five years, a pretty boring room. Walls the same nearly-white as the rest of the house, white-greyish ceramic tile, very pretty white shower tiles, and awful cheap wooden cabinets. Oh, and our chimney, of course. Because it was so white and sterile, it always seemed a cold room (when in fact, being above the furnace, it is the warmest room in the house).

Two years after we moved in, the roof leaked and the ceiling collapsed in the bathroom. What fun that was! Bradley patched the roof, cleaned the mess, and re-dry-walled the ceiling, but we never got around to repainting it. (You can see a little of this in the top right corner of the left picture below.)

After talking about painting for at least three years, I finally just did it.

(Nesting? Possibly. More probably I realized I have the entire Ross Family coming on the 24th of July for the family reunion, and I really hated the way the bathroom looked. But I should have done it two months ago. Bending down and up and getting over the baby gate I placed in the doorway would have been much easier were I not seven months' pregnant.)

I have never, ever painted walls before, not even helping someone else. But, I thought, it can't be that hard.

Well, it's not that hard. But it's darn tedious, and I hated nearly every part of the process. Cleaning, patching, sanding, taping, painting, cleaning the brushes, touching up, taking the tape down...all while taking care of the kiddos? So not a fan of painting.

I painted the trim and the cabinets and door bright white in semi-gloss, and the walls a celery green. I'm not sure I actually like the color (it's more yellow and brighter than I imagined), but I will not be repainting. Maybe in another five years.

And I actually do like the way it looks. A shiny new coat of paint, covering up the patches and the trouble spots, and just changing things, actually did wonders.