I come from a long line of pink bathrooms. My grandmother’s home in South Minneapolis was a charming pink with ruffled curtains and the most lovely soap smells. My parent’s home I grew up in is an original pink and black Art Deco style bathroom with a built-in vanity that is of a nod to a different era. My first home had pink and green tile that with some white paint and new lights became glorious. I loved it.
So when we bought our 1950s home in the suburbs of Minneapolis and I went into the bathroom as we were looking to purchase the home–sigh–I could only dream about the color this bathroom once was. Was it once powder blue with a touch of grey? A charming peach? In my grandest dreams it was pink–all pink–tub, walls, floor.
What remains of the so thoughtlessly discarded retro bathroom is a mismatch of white and off-white leaky tile topped with a hideous vanity mirror with globe lights blaring. The jet tub is only used as a seriously effective threat to my boys when they are refusing to be done with bath time. We tried the new light and fresh-coat-of-paint redo that worked so lovely before. What remained was a marginally better mismatched leaky bathroom. So we are embarking on what will be our very first new bathroom. I’ll admit, I get stars in my eyes when I think of never having to clean that jet tub again. As my friend says, “it’s like polishing a turd.” And really I have yet to meet a home project I didn’t love; I am jumping in with bells on. But there is a little piece of me that still mourns the pink. A re-creation could never be the same, so onward to fresh white, but I’ll always think what could’ve been.