I admit it. I’m obsessive when it comes to paint colors. I suppose I could chalk it up to my growing nesting instinct. But the truth is, it’s an affliction I’ve been dealing with long before I was pregnant.
As a psychology major who works in advertising, I’ve been trained to understand the power of color on mood and behavior. I know, for example, that red stimulates impulse and appetite. Just think KFC, McDonald’s, Wendy’s, Jack in the Box … that’s no coincidence. I’ve read that yellow causes anxiety, and babies with yellow nurseries tend to cry more. And I know that green is one of the most restful colors to the eye. Hoping for a baby that would sleep through the night, we decided to paint the nursery green. And that’s where the obsession began.
See, for me it’s not as simple as, “Oh yeah, that’s pretty.” I approached the task with a fervor that drove some to deem me “The Paint Nazi.” I brought home volumes of paint chips. Purchased a dozen sample-sized colors. Created a crazy checkerboard of color on the nursery wall. Considered the grayness and yellowness of each shade. Reconsidered. Contemplated their warmth/coolness. Their Light Reflectance Value, a figure the paint company actually provides as though to mock my suffering. Looked at the wall in the morning. With the shades up. Shades down. Then again at night. At dusk. At dawn (when I’d likely be in there for a morning feeding, of course). Compared. Contrasted. And finally, after two weeks, decided. Floating Lily Pad it was. I was certain. Michael – perhaps the kindest and most patient man on Earth – concurred.
And so it was that two Sundays ago, Brent Kelly came over for an afternoon of painting and pizza with Michael. To escape the paint fumes – God knows I was loopy enough already – I headed to the mall on a mission for maternity shirts that didn’t look like circus tents.
Three hours later, I returned to a nursery beautifully cut-in and twice coated with Floating Lily Pad. And I hated it. Understanding that there’s a limit to Michael’s patience, I hid my true feelings and told him what a beautiful job he’d done. But I continued to creep back into the room, hoping the color might suddenly look somehow different. About three nights later, Michael happened upon me crouched on a footstool in the center of the room, crying. He knew immediately the obsession had continued. And he took it very well.
“Honey, if you really hate it, I’ll repaint,” he said, with all the tenderness and compassion I love so much. “But, I’m only doing it once more,” he said firmly. “So pick right this time.” After all, I didn’t marry a push-over.
As it turns out, he’s not repainting. Evidently, one of the symptoms of Paint-Obsessive Disorder is a reluctance to let go of the decision-making process itself, and simply accept that you have, in fact, chosen the most perfect hue possible. I walked into the room several days after the paint dried, and the heavens opened (or had the fumes just finally all cleared?). In any case, I was smitten. I suddenly couldn’t imagine a more ideal reflectance of light or a better balance of gray and yellow. Go figure.
No question about it, this was a labor of love but the end result was worth it. Much like real labor, I suppose. Though I hope that’s not quite as painful. Now about that changing table…
Way too gray. What was I thinking?
