I have recently completed a furniture shift upstairs; I moved Conall into the box room and the two smallies into the bigger room. This required dismantling the bunks and making them into two single beds. I had planned this for awhile; it was keeping me awake at night but I knew I’d need another pair of hands and I was reticent to bring it up with himself because I had begged and yes, wept for those bunks a year previously. I drew plans, printed blueprints and used my feminine wiles, bringing it up at the right moment while passing him a beer.
He put up a half-arsed argument about the room being too small etc but I shushed him (Marilyn Monroe style) and he was putty in my hands.
There was a frantic search for alan keys that on a normal day would inhabit every surface of the house; I stepped up in my role as dictator, I mean overseer of the operation and shouted instructions at my browbeaten husband. The beds were placed side by side and my heart sank as I thought “shit the room is too small and how long do I continue with this charade before putting the bunks back together?” Ossie looked at me quizzically and I went into damage control mode; “Of course it looks small now but with some rearranging it’ll be just perfect”.
With the donkey work done, he excused himself and I spent the next two days up to my armpits in clothes and hangers. The problem with having 3 kids of the same sex is trying to sort through their clothes; I have to look at each tag to check the age to see whose wardrobe it goes into. I can’t throw anything out or give it to charity as I have to keep it for the next in line. I love when Rian grows out of something because then it is gone, gone, gone!
I had some amazing space-freeing-up ideas.. I got a chest of drawers into the bottom of Conall’s wardrobe, result. The room still looks small but it’s liveable and the two smallies are super-cute in their twin beds at night giggling to each other and my big boy is happy to have his own space.
I get such a kick from moving furniture around and it’s all due to the queen of dissatisfaction, my mother. By the age of 4, I had lived in 4 houses (none of them rented), and I grew up with the threat of moving my whole life, although it took her another 30 odd years to get around to it. Our house was in a constant state of flux; I remember my Dad once with a lump hammer knocking down a dividing wall that must have pissed her off greatly. Couches were her thing and they would be replaced very frequently and moved to a different room almost weekly before moving on to a grateful relative (I’m hoping she gets sick of the gorgeous couch she currently has in her sitting room (pictured above, although not her sitting room, she wouldn’t allow the clutter) although I know my sister also has her eye on it; she’s had it 3 years now, way past it’s expiry date). A conservatory was built and then torn down to make way for an extension that left us with approximately 5 inches of back garden (that was paved then decked, then cobble-locked). My Mam is not one for handbags or holidays but she loves to decorate and myhome.ie is aptly the home page on her laptop; she missed her calling in real estate. My sister is the same and I’ll often drop by and she’ll answer the door drenched in sweat saying she’s moving the bedrooms around (unless that’s code for something).
I have a new plan for Conall’s room that requires a mid-sleeper with a wardrobe and desk under it; it’s my mam’s fault as she cut a page out of the argos catalogue and told me to look for a similar one in ikea. She is now redecorating vicariously and once I’ve paid off my renovated fanny, I’ll start on the house.Tonight is date night, a nice terminology for both of us being in the same room for more then 3 hours. I will get some alcohol and Remo’s chicken wings and when my lovely husband is slightly inebriated I will broach the subject although I do need a new couch too (seriously I’m washing the covers fortnightly and it’s threadbare and gross). I can’t even sit in my scuzzy sitting room any more, I just go to bed when the kids do as I’m depressed looking at the ripped wallpaper, broken lamps and stained everything else. Can someone please send a team of interior decorators from the telly to surprise do up my house (not Peter Andre though, it’d be hard to remove all that baby oil and tan off my new furniture) while I rest in a spa. My mam could oversee the whole operation.