I'm hopeless at doing just about anything with my hands, so in our house DIY means DO, IT YONI. In all caps. It's a demand. I like to think of myself as the art director and Y as my creative, because our house is apparently Mad Men.
Y's latest accomplishment is our bathroom -- he painted it, put up some much needed tile, patiently waited three months for me to find shelves and towel bars that I liked, and then hung said shelves and towel bars.
While I flew to New Orleans this summer, Y tackled the hideous pinkish-tan bathroom walls. After begging me for months not to choose grey or white paint ("I CAN'T TAKE ANY MORE GREY IN THIS HOUSE") he finally convinced me to let him paint the walls an actual color. I chose navy.
Joke's on him, because everyone knows navy is a neutral.
As he kissed me goodbye at the airport that weekend, Y told me, "When you come back, we'll have a nice bathroom for you and the baby."
While he was slaving away creating the perfect bathroom for a baby (which I guess means ensuring that there are plenty of surfaces for him or her to poop on/in), I spent the weekend singing karaoke until all hours of the night, eating way too much deliciously unhealthy New Orleans cuisine, and seeing Jay Z and Beyonce in concert -- and probably inadvertently giving the baby a contact high.
I think we can all agree Y won for best parent that weekend.
Although without my child rearing skills, the baby would never be able to claim that his or her first concert was a Beyonce concert. So maybe it's a toss up?
For reference, this is the bathroom we purchased. Like.... on purpose. Why?!