A Room of Our Own

I'm certain that there is some sort of pseudo-psychology out there that addresses what sort of person you are based on the way you prioritize  your home. And if there isn't, there really should be. The people who landscape first are most certainly different from the ones who set up intricate sound systems. And there must be a difference between the people who focus on their kitchens and those who put their efforts into the rec room.

My sisters are bedroom people. It seems to me that all my sisters learned the art of setting up a bedroom from my mother. Their beds are floaty and luxurious. The rooms have the perfect amount of feminine touch without being cloying. They are rooms men can still feel comfortable in, even if the rooms are just a little sweeter and softer. Their bedrooms are beautiful, relaxing, serene.

I did not inherit this bedroom designing skill, or maybe my psychology is just different. Maybe I am not really a bedroom person (I feel like there should be a joke about my husband's disappointment, but I can't quite flesh it out so...) I have fully embraced the idea that bedrooms are supposed to serve very limited, very specific functions: sleep and one other thing.

I have always focused my attention on public spaces-- making my home as welcoming and inviting as I can for guests, even to the point of neglecting the private spaces. I hang my favorite pictures where they will be seen and admired. I vacuum the living room floor at least four times as often as the  bedrooms. If I am going to spend money, the money goes towards the people zones: new throw pillows, coffee table books, candles.

My bedroom is the room in the house that always feels the least finished, a hodgepodge of whatever is left, and I'm sort of sick of it. For my birthday I got a dreamy white bedspread and beveled edged mirrors. My parents are buying us antique dressers for Christmas, and I'm ready to replace the plastic mini-blinds that came with the house.

I think the fact that I want to change our bedroom is tied to my own psychology, a desire for a little more private life, a little less public. This pregnancy has  begged me for more solitude, more quiet time, more reflection. There have been times I have not felt like myself. My most typical self craves lots of people, lots of energy, lots of conversation. But these days, I'm spending a lot more time tucked away somewhere reading, listening to my children playing together in the yard from an open window. And for the first time, I want to room I share with my husband to be a place I can retreat and relax, rather than just stumble into late at night once all the kids are in bed and all the lights are turned out.

It's not there yet. It is still full of things that don't exactly spark joy. But I'm excited to make it better, make it ours, probably just in time for a new person to invade our sleeping space and constantly dirty our sheets.

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This Weekend We / Just Me and Tom

After taking Sena to go see my school's fall performance, my mom ushered my kids away for a week at the beach, leaving Tom and I with an empty house on Saturday morning.  And we spent the next few hours cleaning the house, drinking coffee, and generally relishing the absence of any sort of rushing or responsibility.  We were just two grown-ups with only ourselves to look after.

My mom takes my kids away for week long stretches to Ocracoke with more regularity than I might actually prefer. The time they spend away from me always leaves me feeling a little guilty and then a little empty. But the first two days are usually wonderful, and this weekend was no exception.

Tom and I spent a whole lot of time just the two of us, which rarely happens. Even when the kids do go away, we usually surround ourselves with friends. We plan all sorts of social things to do, the sorts of things not conducive to kids and families. But this weekend we didn't do those things. This weekend we went to an architectural salvage yard, bought old doors, and spent hours and hours on our back porch stripping them of years of paint.

We interspersed our project with lots of long walks, a late night Rushmore viewing, and a couple of pints of gelato, but mostly, we just worked side by side. It was pleasant and peaceful and exactly the sort of thing young me thought boring adults did. Turns out, I'm just another boring adult.  A perfectly content, boring adult.

Yesterday afternoon, the excitement of time alone started to wear out when I heard the neighbor kids all running around playing. I wanted my kids to be in the mix. I wanted them to bombard the porch, hungry for dinner and eager to tell tales. I wanted to watch an episode of The Wonder Years with them more than I wanted to watch the episode of Breaking Bad we ultimately indulged in.

I miss them.  I would rather that they were here with me, but I am also glad I get to spend time alone with Tom. When I was pregnant with Sena, I watched a lot of Oprah. So much Oprah that I have never felt the need to watch another episode since Sena's birth. I distinctly remember an episode with Muffy Mead- ferro, who wrote Confessions of a Slacker Mom.  The book stirred up some controversy because Mead-ferro professed to love her husband more than her children. At the time, I was completely befuddled. I wasn't sure what the love of a mother was going to be like, but I assumed it had to be pretty damn intense. Furthermore, my relationship with Tom was a little unsettled.  I just couldn't really imagine where I would ever stand on the issue.

Ten years later, I'm not sure that I agree with her on that point, although Confessions was one of my favorite books for a long time. I lent it out to so many different people, I don't know whatever became of my copy. But I will say that I am glad that I can enjoy spending hours on end with Tom, and we don't spend it all discussing our kids. We talk about things and make plans and try to make each other laugh.  Although we got married because of a kid, we stay married because of each other.

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Aimless Days

There's nothing like a mid-week day off. There is no pressure on a Tuesday. You don't have to go visit people or take a road trip. No need to feel particularly productive or rushed. Although on Monday night my mom and I debated possible ways to spend the gift of a day, in the end everything just seemed like a little too much work-- too much driving, fears of fighting rush hour traffic, places crowed with kids home from school.

I frequently feel pulled between two ideas that seem fundamental to good parenting: the idea that children (and parents) need unstructured playtime and relaxation, and the idea that children need to be exposed to as many places, people, and ideas as possible. It seems like any given weekend or day off, I have to decide between those two needs. Do I take my kids to Harper's Ferry, a museum, or the zoo or do we sleep in and spend the afternoon building forts?

Yesterday, started with pancakes, if that gives you any indication of the direction we took. Pancakes are not how you begin a  productive day. 

When it was finally late enough in the morning to knock on the neighbor's doors, I took a pack of kids down to the beach. Sunday's winter coats were left at home, and even shoes were quickly abandoned.  Logs were hauled. Bridges were built. Streams were forded by little boys unable to balance themselves across swaying beams. 

We didn't do anything new or novel. It was the sort of thing we do over and over again throughout the year, during every season. And it felt great.

I realize the scales have tipped towards the unstructured and the relaxing as of late. I blame it in small part on pregnancy. In the upcoming days and weeks, we will do our best to venture beyond our edge of the world. But as for yesterday, I have no regrets.

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Is Known to Be Extreme

The weather has changed, at least for awhile. Maryland weather is fickle though. I'm certain we will have sunshine and warm days dot the rest of autumn.   However, our Sunday excursion required winter coats and hats. Even still, Gus was certain he was getting frost bite.

I used to hate the coming of winter. I hated the shorter days, the darkness. I halfway convinced myself that I suffered from seasonal affective disorder.  But I've had a change of heart. I've started to appreciate the things that colder weather brings. Life slows down, and the nights feel long and peaceful. Projects get started and, sometimes, even completed.  I have learned to appreciate burrowing.

But I think that the only way I can really appreciate all those things is when I keep myself in the fresh air, at least a little bit, when I try to embrace my Danish roots and get outside. Everyone looks better with rosy cheeks after all. They suit me better than a tan.

For the first time the big kids brought their bikes. Sena had a very difficult time learning to ride a bike. Like her mother, she isn't in possession of a great deal of balance or agility. The skill was hard won, and therefore, even sweeter once mastered.

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Sweet, Slow

The house is as clean as it gets. Tom's playing the banjo. The kids are in the basement building with Legos. There is a pot of chili on the stove, and in a few minutes I'll get up to make corn bread.

Outside, the leaves are blowing and there is so much yard work to do, but the weather lets us put it off again. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.

I am only medium good at holidays. Our house only had Halloween decorations because my mom bought them for us last year, and she insisted I put them back up.  I don't make my kids Halloween costumes; they are handed down or store bought. The kids carved pumpkins on Wednesday without any of the proper tools-- no stencils or drills or little tiny saw knives. Their jack-o-lanterns were hacked and completely wonderful. We went trick-or-treating with the neighbors. It was easy and quick and very fruitful.

Tonight we will start Novemeber with a handful of friends, and if the kids want, they might put their costumes back on because, really, there is no reason not to. Meanwhile, they keep sneaking candy, and I pretend not to notice.

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