When Craig and I moved into this home, we carried fabric swatches to the store, painstakingly choosing our furniture and accessories. We obsessed over every detail. Did our reds match? Would the green in the chair pull out that hint of green in the pattern on the pillow? Was that chair to scale? We were so happy to be creating a space that would be our home, the place where we would build our family.
I look around now and my eyes don’t know where to rest. This is what I see:
Bookshelves that were once decorated with crystal vases and photographs are now crammed to full capacity with board books and coloring books.
A sofa that was once was neat and tidy with carefully arranged pillows now holds a stash of Cheerios in its cushions and is covered with Katie’s stuffed animals.
Our dining room table, once clean and polished, now displays a kitty place mat (on top of which sits a princess purse this morning). In the corner stands Katie’s play kitchen which took the place of a large ficus that we felt added life to the room.
The living room floor, once clear and easy to vacuum, is now occupied by an ExerSaucer, a baby bouncy seat, and a play mat.
The tray on the ottoman that once held a tidy stack of magazines now holds one of Katie’s babies and a handful of hair clips and ribbons.
One part of me feels that these toys, books, and miscellany are proof of the real home that we have built. The children have taken over this space and it holds more happiness with all of their clutter than it did when pristine and carefully decorated.
Then there’s this other, nagging, persistent part of me that thinks that it looks like Toys “R” Us threw up all over our house.