Sitting pretty
When do we get our “grown up” furniture? My husband and I have been slowly but surely swapping out some items around the house for better-quality versions of what we currently own, but all the “big” stuff is still to come.
Most of our furniture was purchased during Spencer’s bachelor days when he was freshly transplanted to Maryland . . . and, you know, not really focused on aesthetics. When Spence bought his first apartment, we “camped” in the living room in folding chairs for weeks. He had a small television sitting on a packing box, and a dining room set he’d previously purchased from a neighbor’s moving sale and literally carried up the street.
I moved straight from my parents’ home to my husband’s, bringing little but my books and clothes. His furniture became my furniture, including a small couch purchased for the apartment with accompanying loveseat. Spence almost skipped the second item because it effectively doubled what he was spending — but I convinced him that a single couch with seating for three was going to be quickly outgrown. (I’m writing this from the loveseat . . . seven years later.)
We haven’t purchased much since then — and what we have added to the house has been for the kids. I did choose one fun, funky chair for the “library” (now a playroom, let’s be honest). But aside from the nightstands we found at an antiques center and refinished years ago, we’ve just watched our old standbys change one stain at a time.
In some ways, it’s perfectly fine to have nothing “nice.” Toddlers greatly change your idea of what “nice” is, anyway. I don’t panic when milk splashes on a couch cushion or a cookie gets mashed up in the carpet; I mean, I don’t like these things, but they don’t send me into a rage. They’re kids. Messes are a part of life.
Would I feel that way if the juice was hitting my cool library chair? Perhaps not. Good thing we never eat in there.
Having good furniture is a commitment. Not just financially, but emotionally. I don’t want to trail behind my daughter and son with paper towels, ready to spring into action at the slightest drip. I also don’t want to feel enraged when my expensive stuff gets ruined, because it’s going to.
See! Bright side. No expensive stuff? No worries.
We’re reaching the point of having to replace certain items, though. Our dining room table, which survived beautifully for decades at Spencer’s neighbor’s house, is now riddled with dings and dents. Aside from the obvious ones on the table’s legs caused by monster trucks and Matchbox cars, I have no idea how they even got there.
I’ve solved this problem temporarily by covering it with a tablecloth. Spence has aspirations of sanding the table down and refinishing it, and I do like that idea. I gravitate toward pieces with history — and in addition to being solid and weighty, it has useful extension leaves. It dates back to the 1960s, I’d guess, and we reupholstered the chairs early on. They’re now covered in chocolate pudding drips and errant coffee stains, so I guess they’ll be headed for a facelift someday as well. I can’t imagine what we’d pay new for a set like this.
Upstairs, Hadley’s bedroom set was my mother’s — the same dressers and desk I grew up using in my own room. They’re beautiful and feminine and I still love them myself. My girl is all set.
By contrast, Oliver’s room has been cobbled together with stuff found on Facebook Marketplace and Amazon. I had no idea what I was doing when we started putting together his space. And as he gets older, of course, his needs will continue to change. The various bins I’d been using to store his clothes are no longer cutting it. Ollie needs dressers and a “big boy” bed, plus more shelving for his toys and games.
I brought this up to Spencer on one of our many weekend drives, cruising along in the van so the kids would nap. We usually hit at least one flea market in our journey, and I know some good furniture is out there.
“Hmm. Just thinking, but . . . what if we bought ourselves a dresser instead?” Spencer replied.
Along one wall of our bedroom are a series of plastic bins that would look much more at home in a college dorm. That’s probably because they came from one — Spencer’s — long before we met, and we’ve just never bothered replacing them.
To be fair, they’re “long-term storage” . . . i.e., things we never use and probably should donate. All my John Mayer concert T-shirts that fit a decade and two children ago. Fleece pants I wear on the one annual occasion I go out in the snow (for photos, of course). Halloween costumes of years gone by.
At first I resisted, thinking I’d rather spend the money on the kids — but Spence is right. We deserve “nice” things, too. And as our room is the area of the house that has not been taken over by LEGO, rice snacks and toy cars, I am tempted to clear out the bins and relocate them to Ollie’s space so we can invest in something new. Something nice. Something for grown-ups. Assuming I am one of those. Sometimes I still can’t be sure.