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NOT part of my dream decor
Before my husband and I bought our house, we had big dreams about decorating it. I, especially, had been preparing for the big day since I was old enough to realize the absurdity of my parents’ pea-green seventies carpet.
One of my favorite childhood activities was to join my brother in the “if we won the lottery” game. We’d fantasize about Jacobsen chairs and overpriced Murano glass. We discussed the merits of renovating an old castle in the south of France versus a nice walk-up in Notting Hill. We read every interior design magazine we could get our hands on. While we weren’t quite sure how to afford these excessive dreams, we had no real doubt that one day our own abodes would look exactly as good as those in Elle Décor or House Beautiful.
My brother made good on his word; his house looks like a showroom. My house, on the other hand, is the proverbial “work in progress”. The reason is simple: my daydreams never incorporated children. Having a seven- and a four-year-old definitely cramps our style. Since we moved in, my otherwise lovely children have drawn on the walls, broken two DVD-players, soiled the carpet beyond recognition, and peeled off wallpaper. They have pulled down curtains, broken towel racks, flooded the bathroom (twice), and painted on the dining room table. I could keep going, but then I’d have to go and bang my head against the wall, and I don’t have time for that.
In addition to all the destruction, my son has recently added another disturbing habit: he hides food. Cups of juice disappear, never to be found again. I’ll open a kitchen drawer and find a moldy banana. Sometimes I suddenly see him walking around, noshing a cookie I bought months ago. What is he thinking? My parents have fed me several times a day since I was born, but they might inexplicably stop tomorrow? And why does he only eat the white part of the egg, and leave the yolk in crumbles all over the floor? Can’t he just put that yolk back on his plate? And why does a sandwich always fall facedown?
We often get invited to people’s houses for dinner. I always gladly accept; I know my children virtually never destroy other people’s stuff, and I get to enjoy a nice looking home. Of course, returning the hospitality is a bit of a problem. When we bought our house, we divided the renovations into three phases. There were immediate repairs, repairs for the next year, and things to leave for the really extremely long term. Phase one was enthusiastically completed, but phase two was, shall we say, compromised. That means the kitchen is missing a section of the ceiling as well as part of the floor, and I haven’t replaced my living room furniture yet. So maybe we are just setting a bad example by not finishing the work; truth is, we are big believers in the “some day” concept.
Some day my children will be grown up. Someday I’ll find a nice handy man to hang up that chandelier. Some day I will get this mess under control. I will have a beautiful, clean house, without crayon marks everywhere.
In the meantime, my brother and his wife have welcomed a baby of their own. That their perfect décor will soon be a thing of the past they do not yet know, but they will. Their son is genetically linked to my children; they don’t stand a chance.
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