Is it too late to be a 22-year-old unpaid intern for Elle Decor or House Beautiful and learn my Adirondack, Bauhaus, Chinoiseries from the ground up?
I flip through features on East Coast charm and European travel-inspired sunroom redecorations and wish I could comment on how a space resembles the architectural style I recall from summers spent in similar wallpapered, well-appointed rooms by the sea, dropping names of artistic influences gleaned from years of study or life experience. But I’m too old to start acquiring a textbook knowledge, too young to claim firsthand knowledge of notable eras, too timid to fake it, too tired to fight for even a taste of that alternate life.
So, I sigh and settle for the sentences my life allows. I babyproofed this room myself, I say to no one, picking off the adhesive that’s been gathering debris in hues of last season’s It color. I envy you, says no one. Ever.
File this under "meaning to". Also filed under "but didn't".
"I don't want people to say I'm beautiful."
"Mommy, stay. Because you're the best mommy." She needed a partner in crime for the pouring. Today, she found one.
I need to do mess better.
There is freedom in being a complete beginner and in saying I have no idea what I'm doing.
Today, I let her win.
"I don't want to play with you." And there it is. Her unexpressed anger and sadness. In my head, I understand it; in my heart, it's a knife, twisted.
"Is it three weeks yet?" I'd told her that Baby Brother was coming in three weeks, three weeks ago. He was due. He was overdue.