For the past 21/2 weeks, I've been painting a room in our house for our 14-year-old daughter to move into. It will take me another two or three weekends to get it done. If that seems like a long time, it's not that I'm a slow, careful painter, or that I'm so busy I can't find time. The reason is that I've decided, for once in my life, to do a good job.

I have painted every room in our old house at least three times. Never once, however, in the 17 years that we've lived here, have I actually done it properly. Sometimes, I'll know it at the time. There will be a piece of furniture that's just too heavy to move, or I'll be running out of paint with just a corner window left undone, and I'll pack things up, vowing to finish up "next" weekend.

Other times, I'll think I've done a pretty good job, and then months later, I'll look up and realize that I missed a spot on the ceiling, or that the odd shape on the wall isn't a patch of sunlight -- It's an area where I really needed two coats.

Most often, my wife will get tired of how long it takes me to finish a job and start decorating, hanging pictures and arranging furniture before I'm done. Or a child will want to move into a new room, and if I want to come back later to finish the job, I'll have to move 87 stuffed animals and a pile of school books, and unplug a confusing maze of voltage adapters.

The room I'm painting for my daughter right now was, at various times, a home office, baby room, TV room, boy's bedroom, and junk room. It was off-white, pink, dark gray and finally rust red. I can tell this because in every repainting, I've missed a spot here or there. One window, back in the corner, I've missed five times, it seems, as the original paint is still showing through.

In the past few years, designers and paint companies have joined forces to deal with this problem. Realizing that millions of Americans were doing lousy paint jobs, they came up with the idea of "faux" finishes. The literal translation from French is "fake," but it can also be translated as "pretentious." The idea is you splash color over your walls, smear it around, but do it so messily that everyone knows it's on purpose. (Just to be on the safe side, when people come over, you're supposed to say, "Do you like it? It's one of those 'faux' finishes!) I don't have that excuse. I was just what the French call sloppee and lazee.

My daughter, who currently occupies a room across the hall that isn't much bigger than a walk-in closet, has been amazingly patient with me. She's been in the tiny bedroom for five years now, so long that she doesn't even realize that it's not normal to be able to sit on your bed, work at your desk and be able to get something out of your closet all without moving from one spot. When she grows up, her dream home will be a Winnebago.

Painting is in my blood. I recently signed up for one of those "look up your ancestors" services on the Internet where you can see immigration documents, and found that my great-great-grandfather Peter McKay came over from Ireland in 1861 and on the forms he listed his occupation as "painter." His son, also a Peter McKay, was listed as an "apprentice painter." Somewhere back in the old country I wouldn't be surprised if some Irish guy is looking around an old stone cottage, wondering about the mismatched color scheme, wondering if the Irish actually invented the concept of faux finishing. If he is and the job was done by one of my ancestors, it's not that complicated: The furniture was probably just too heavy to move.

So I toil away evenings and weekends, making sure that every single mullion on every single window is painted. And I'm doing three coats instead of my usual 3/4 coat. Every hole I find, I fill. I'm even peeling off the circa 1917 wallpaper from behind the radiator. It might take me forever, and my daughter may be ready for college before her room is ready for her, but as God is my witness, this time, I will not do a lousy job.

Unless she decides she wants to move in this weekend. Then all bets are off.

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