Our kitchen table has been in sorry shape for the past, oh I don't know, forever?

I grew up with this table. My parents gave it to us when we suddenly had too many children and not enough table at which to feed their hungry mouths.

The table has seen it's share of fork pounding, glitter-paint stains, random assaults by the dog, plenty of take-out, lots of paper plates, a few burned meals, homework, some very special holiday meals.

And that's just my own kids. We're not talking about the years of millet (aka bird seed) and oatmeal (cooked the long way) my mother made me eat for breakfast during my own childhood.

You just can't get rid of family history like that. Also, I'm weird. I get attached to pieces of furniture, houses, streets, trees I climbed as a kid. I go around naming these things and holding them as sacred in my heart.

But this family history? Not so pretty anymore. Something had to be done. And by something I mean something more than throwing a tablecloth over it every time a guest visited.

The Mateo, who cajoled me into giving away the perfectly good rocking chair I breastfed three babies in, decided that the beat-up table was a keeper.

I just think he was excited by the prospect of A Project. Projects are to Matt what blogging is to me: therapy.

So he scraped, he sanded, he scraped some more. He applied like 10 coats of fresh varnish, or whatever it's called. Epoxy? Stain?

After seven hours (more or less) of labor, he ceased from his work and said: "It is good as new."

I say better than new. I get to keep my precious table and it looks pretty again.

Baby, you can't buy that kind of new anywhere.

We celebrated by taking the kids to the beach and then bought a boxful of one of life's most delicious happiness-es: Sprinkles Cupcakes!

Oh, and just in case you're wondering, the table's name is Shelby. :0)