My Imperfectly Perfect Adult Bedroom

I planned on writing something fun and funny this weekend, but life got in the way. Spawnling barfed a lot, and some of it actually got ground into the shag rug I do yoga on and that's just stupid gross. My car broke down in the middle of the night in the freezing cold and I didn't make it home until three in the morning (that was the same night as the barfing. Score!) I'm busily working on a happy holiday project involving - get this - blue balls. Legit. There will be an upcoming blog post about this.

I'm also swamped with school assignments at the moment. My most recent course is grade 11 English, in which I was asked to write a personal essay. Um, no problem, teacher guy. I can't memorize a time table to save my life, but I can totes write you an essay because, like, that's what I do for a living.

Anyway, so I meant to write something only an English teacher would love, and I ended up writing something I kind of love. Which shouldn't be at all surprising on account of my raging narcissism. I decided I'd share it on the blog and kill two busy-before-the-holidays birds with one stone. (It's actually not very nice to bludgeon animals with rocks, but I'll do it in the name of art and readership.)

Oh, and here's hoping my essay passes the plagiarism test once I publish it on my blog and it gets flagged by the software they use. Please send good thoughts and cookies.

MY PERFECTLY IMPERFECT ADULT BEDROOM

By: The Maven of Mayhem who is also known as Amanda Jetté Knox so please do not accuse her of copying this off the interwebs and kick her out of school because she only has two credits to go. Thanks.

Just like.

If the door is left closed for too long, a smell lingers in the air.

It's not a whiff of potpourri gently pouring out of a drawer of delicates, or even a subtle springtime scent emanating from the sheets thanks to the promises of big brand detergent companies.

It's a rather unpleasant smell, actually. It smells like wet canine.

For, you see, this is the dogs' bedroom, too.

It's also sometimes the kids' bedroom when they've had a bad dream or are feeling unwell, and it is nearly always the husband's bedroom.

Proof of their occupation is everywhere: teddy bears lumped under the disheveled duvet, a tie thrown on the dresser, animal-emblazoned pajamas crumpled on the floor (in both adult's and children's sizes, of course), books I've read a hundred times or would never read at all piled unceremoniously atop the nightstands. 

No, this is not just my room.

When I was a little girl, I used to dream of the bedroom I would have as an adult. There would be no insidious toys on the floor waiting to be stepped on, nor would the room's unsightly style wounds be dressed in bandages of discarded clothing. It would be the clean, organized space every Virgo dreams of, free from the chaos and clutter of my youth.

My bedroom would have a fresh look, a sophisticated air. An inviting teal-grey would coat the walls, bringing with it a feeling of warmth and serenity. My bed would have pillows - so many pillows! - and most of them would have absolutely no reason for being other than to please the eye. There would be a bookcase filled with good literature and just a bit of dust to hint at the vintage of some of my more treasured collectables.

In the name of balance, I also hoped to carry a whimsical theme from my childhood into that otherwise stuffy sophistication; A pink glass unicorn standing proudly on my dresser, perhaps, or the Smurfs I used to play with for years peeking out from behind jewelry boxes and reading lamps.

Mine would be a perfect room, a restful haven, and the last bastion of tranquility in a busy adult world. 

Except it isn't really like that, is it? It's actually quite the opposite. Why? Real life happened. Messy kids happened. Dogs who throw up in the walk-in closet happened. A lot of terribly unfair things happened.

I tried to fight against these completely unacceptable happenings for years. I would spend weekends scrubbing floors, sorting dressers, and clearing out the rubble under my bed left over from a recent skirmish between a toddler and his toy trains. I would make the bed, and then remake the bed again after the boys had used it as their mission control center/monster hunting hut. I would move the dog bed into the living room, then bring it back in when they sat outside our door whining at two in the morning. I would go to my son after his bad dream and lull him back to sleep in his own room, only to find his little feet on my pillow by morning, his head of sweaty hair tucked under the blankets.

But I pressed on for far too long; keeping the vision of peaceful perfection in my head, striving through sweat and under-the-breath curses to achieve that blissful tranquility.

Then, one day, I realized the insanity of it all. And I gave up. I succumbed to the reality of my circumstances.

The truth is, my bedroom is not a tidy sanctuary, nor will it be for a very long time. It is not a clean space with bright wooden floors and unmarked baseboards.  It is not a place for throw pillows, for those pillows will literally get thrown. Once on the floor, the dogs will use them like life rafts sheltering them from the cold, un-shiny floors beneath. They will get hairy and smelly, and I will just get angry. So there are no throw pillows.

But there is magic in this room - and I say "this room" because it also doubles as my office, the place where I string words together for a living, and the spot where I make people laugh, cry or think. 

There is joy in this room. It emerges from the belly laughs my children bring when they enter it - often without knocking.  It comes from the wagging tails that greet us each morning and from the happily chewed up toys beneath the bed.

There is love in this room. It blooms from the smile on my husband's face when he kisses me good morning, and from the gratitude that often overcomes me when I hang up his shirts and remember how fortunate I am to have someone's shirts to hang.

There is a beautiful mayhem in this room. It's as unique as our family is, as imperfect as my previous strive for perfection. It's the apple core peeking out from behind my jewelry box instead of a Smurf. It's the eighty-eighth reading of Green Eggs and Ham, my hands moving over dried peanut butter stains and old scribbles, wondering with a tear in my eye if this will be the last time they ask me to read this book. It's in the contemplation I have each time I look at the dirty walls and wish for a paint job, only to decide that now is not the time. Now is the time to let the walls be dirty before there is no one to mess them up anymore. Now is the time to enjoy everything just as it is, and to let go of expectations that steal that joy away.

I suppose my room is almost perfect, just as it is.

But it still needs a glass unicorn.