When I decided to repaint the garden fence, I had a simple vision. A quiet Saturday afternoon. A fresh coat of paint. Maybe even a podcast playing in the background while I worked my way across the panels like some kind of domestic Monet. Nothing too fancy — just neat, clean lines and that satisfying transformation from faded, moss-streaked wood to something fresh and tidy.
But of course, I forgot to factor in one important detail: I have children.
It started innocently enough. I’d bought the paint, laid out the dust sheets, and was just cracking open the tin when a small voice behind me asked, “Can I help, Daddy?”
I hesitated.
Because here’s the thing. I love the idea of doing things with the kids. In theory. In practice, I tend to break into a quiet internal scream the moment they start using the wrong brush or accidentally lean against the wet panel I’ve just finished.
Still, what kind of dad says no to “Can I help”? So I said yes. And then the other one came over. And before I knew it, what was meant to be a solo, vaguely therapeutic DIY session had turned into a full-blown collaborative family art project — with the emphasis very much on project and not so much on art.
Letting Go of Control
I’ll admit something here. I like things done a certain way. I’m not a total neat freak, but I have standards. I read the back of the paint tin. I stir it for the full two minutes. I cut in with precision and pride myself on keeping paint off places it shouldn’t be — like, say, my shoes, or the cat.
The kids, however, did not get that memo.
They dunked the brushes in so deep the paint slopped over the sides. They painted in random directions. They argued over who got to do which panel. One of them started “accidentally” painting the other. And at one point, I swear someone tried to paint the grass.
My instinct — honed over years of adulting — was to take over. To step in and say, “Thanks, but I’ll do the rest.” To grab the brush, fix the drips, redo the worst bits, and try to regain some control over the situation.
But I didn’t. And I’ll tell you why.
Somewhere between watching a bright blue handprint appear on the shed door and realising my youngest had painted a smiley face on the fence “because it looked too boring,” I had a weird moment of clarity.
They weren’t ruining the job. They were making it memorable.
The Chaos Was Fun
There was this point — maybe an hour in — when I realised how much I was enjoying myself.
Not in the way I’d originally planned, of course. That vision of calm productivity had long since drowned under a puddle of paint water and a chorus of “You’re getting paint on me!”
But we were laughing. We were talking. I wasn’t on my phone. They weren’t asking for screens. We were all just… doing something together. Badly. But together.
And as I stood back and looked at the section they’d painted — blotchy, streaked, and undeniably enthusiastic — I felt something shift. The realisation that the job didn’t need to be perfect. The fence didn’t need to look like it was done by a professional. It just needed to mean something.
Which, as it turned out, it did.
What I Learned About Parenting
Parenting, I’ve come to realise, is often about walking the tightrope between teaching and letting them explore. Between guiding and getting out of the way. I can teach them how to hold the brush and explain why you shouldn’t overload it — but if I don’t let them try, mess up, and figure it out themselves, what’s the point?
That fence, for all its imperfections, now has a story. Every uneven brush stroke is a moment we shared. Every weird splodge is a laugh we had. Every mistake is a memory.
And maybe more importantly, the kids were proud. Genuinely proud. They stood back, arms crossed like tiny decorators, surveying their handiwork. “We helped,” they said. “We painted the fence.”
They didn’t see the drips or the missed patches. They saw contribution. Ownership. A sense of having been involved in something real.
That’s what I would’ve taken from them if I’d stepped in too soon. That’s what I used to do — hover, correct, quietly redo something when they weren’t looking. Because I wanted it to look “nice.”
Now I’d rather it look like us.
The Fence Still Looks Awful, But I Love It
It’s not winning any awards, let’s put it that way.
There are still a couple of blue handprints that I never quite managed to scrub off. One panel has way more paint than the others, and the colour is a shade lighter in places where they didn’t quite go heavy enough. But every time I look at it, I smile.
It’s ours.
It’s chaotic, mismatched, full of character — and not unlike the family who painted it.
And yes, I did consider fixing it. Going over it all quietly once they were in bed. Starting again.
But I didn’t. And not just because they would have noticed. Because that fence is more than just wood and paint now. It’s a reminder.
That sometimes the best memories come from the moments when things don’t go to plan. When you let go of control, of neatness, of getting it “right.” And just let kids be kids — messy, imaginative, enthusiastic kids who want to be part of something real.
The Joy of Imperfection
If parenting has taught me anything, it’s that life is rarely tidy. It’s paint-streaked, uneven, loud, frustrating, and beautiful. And trying to control every part of it is not only exhausting — it misses the point.
The fence still stands. It keeps the dog in and the world out. But now it also tells a story — one of laughter, patience, letting go, and leaning in.
It’s easy to want things to be perfect — the house, the garden, the kids’ behaviour. But sometimes, the most meaningful moments are the messy ones.
And that fence? That gloriously patchy, multi-textured, kid-painted fence?
It’s the best thing in our garden.
