After I said yes to the mural (see yesterday's blog),the girls worked feverishly in the fear that I might change my mind. Paint was bought, all sorts of colors were assembled from who knows where, and the back bedroom became a hub of busy-ness.
I remember at least 3 of them working on it, and I witnessed nothing since they would beat me home from school and be leaving about the time I arrived. I don't remember seeing any progress; maybe I was discouraged from peeking.
My favorite part of the story is the day I came home, and no one was here, the big fan was blowing through the bedroom, and my father walked in. At the time, my parents lived next door, and were the perfect neighborhood watch. He asked how things were going, and was I having some carpeting done. No, no new carpet, or cleaning or anything. Why did he ask? He saw a van pull up and unload some equipment that suspiciously looked like carpet cleaning equipment. Really?
So I had another look at the situation in the back bedroom... The sea green carpet was still there, the fan was blowing, and I still wasn't sure what was wrong. The mural was half painted.
The end of the story: Someone tripped/tipped over the gallon of paint onto the carpet, and after several moments of panic, the father of one of the helpers was consulted. Luckily he sells carpet, and I wonder if the thought went through their collective minds that the carpet could be replaced!
No harm done though. The carpet remained for many years. The paint didn't show, and they all learned valuable lessons about paint, painting, and paint clean up. Their best friend: soda water.
I don't remember being worried about it, however, my daughter points out that there must have been a good reason why she was so stressed out about the spillage. I was a tyranni-mother, which I have blocked from my memory.