My husband and I have given up on having anything nice until the kids are grown. Someday, maybe, we can go out on a crazy shopping spree and furnish the house the way we want. Like with furniture from a catalogue and stuff.
Once in a while we forget that as parents of young children we aren’t entitled to have nice things in our home. Like the time we bought $90 worth of fancy candles for our bay window only to find that the kids had scratched their names in the sides. And carved little naked people. With big smiles.
That is okay. I’m hoping that there will be real linen and polished wood at the end of the tunnel.
Images of what are home will look like some day when the kids are grown…
…and also when someone gives us 10 million dollars tax-free.
And not one of those fake lottery tickets, cause people, we don’t play the lottery.
Until that time, I’ll settle for the ugly countertops put in during the 1960s, complete with curvy groovy shapes in a dark yellow on light yellow motif.
Don’t worry, some progress has been made since we bought the house. We did, after all, get rid of the blue shag rug in the bathroom that mysteriously collected dog hair when we didn’t own a dog.
For now, we’ll put up with plastic baskets to corral the toys, and we’ll deal with the floor-sale couch that after repeated jumping upon looks more like a melted puddle of denim fabric than some place to sit. The plastic won’t mould when a peanut butter sandwich is left in it, and the couch, well, we don’t entertain much anyway.
Plus, if the house was “finished,” there would be no more dreaming, would there?
Ha ha ha. You bought that right? Maybe for a second?
The truth is that I complain about the house all of the time. And then I feel guilty. Must be the upbringing. I can almost see legions of Italian Aunts with New York accents waving their underarm jiggle at me because I never did put plastic slip covers on the couch or get into the habit of waxing the linoleum once a week. Cause the state of the house is a reflection of the woman, even if we say it isn’t. Even if we don’t want it to be. Which is why you’ll never see a man making a mad dash through the rooms with a plastic garbage bag of things to stuff in the closet when the doorbell rings.
We carry our culture norms with us, even as we rebel against them. Plus, it is true; I do like a nice scented candle on the windowsill.