It is not a rare occurrence for me to go on a rant about the size of my house. Our chairs hit the walls when we push away from the dining room table, the living room is cramped and our kitchen feels like we have exactly 22.5 centimetres of counter space. Unlike many, we have no family room, TV room, guest room, breakfast room, play room or extra room for that matter. As you can undoubtedly surmise, we suffer greatly.
I say this tongue and cheek as I am highly aware of the massive amount of privilege we have. My house would seem palatial to many around the world. My complaining is completely unwarranted, yet it does reflect a human propensity to always want more or my undoubtedly erroneous belief that having a larger house would suddenly make my life, and certainly parenting, much easier.
Not having a rec room has meant that my children have always played underfoot. You cannot imagine how many LEGO pieces I have stepped on in my life, or, for that matter, the number of bad words my children have learned because of these painful incidents. I have honestly fantasized about how my life would be so much easier, and tidier, if my kids could keep their toys in a room dedicated to their enjoyment. The living room could return to its original purpose, a place to provide me with a semblance of having some control over my environment. If anything, my life would resemble a bit more what I should aspire to if I am to believe all the home décor websites and magazines.
Perhaps even more frustrating than the endless toys underfoot, is the fact that we do not have any rooms in our house where one can find some peace away from others. I love my kids, I really do, but sometimes I dream about finding refuge in a space from which all people, noise and clutter are prohibited. My desperation has been such that I can frequently be found sewing in the small corner I have created for myself in our unheated, uninsulated, dark basement. Sure, I can’t feel my hands, but at least I can spend a few minutes away from the chaos of our busy family life.
Our kitchen is another place that has prevented me from being a perfect mom all because of lack of space. It has caused me to shoo away the kids and the dog on many occasions. I will be entirely to blame if my children have no idea how to boil water when they move out. I blame the size of my kitchen. I am sure that if I had a glorious island, more counter space and a double-sink, I could have been the culinary equivalent of Jamie Oliver. Instead, most nights, my kids might describe me as a cranky working mom pushing from one end of the counter to the other the myriad of objects, lunch bags, toaster and coffee pot, preventing me from moving around efficiently. It is exhausting and may explain why we eat frozen pizza more often than I care to admit.
As the summer approaches and I anticipate with much glee, and perhaps some very real trepidation, long days with the kids underfoot, I know that my house is going to feel even smaller. It is the time of the year when my love for my sweet cherubs is certainly put to the test. After all, there’s only so much noise and mess a mere mortal can endure.
As my children have gotten older, however, I have grudgingly had to admit that this enforced intimacy has some benefits. At an age when kids want to be as far from their parents as they can, unless they want something from you that is, mine have no choice but to be in the same room as me most of the time. Sure, we have nightly heated discussions about what show to watch, but at least we are all watching TV together in the only space that has a comfy couch to sit on. I might not be able to make “gourmet” meals, but I am noticing that the kids frequently choose to do their homework on the dining room table, which is about 10 centimetres from the kitchen sink, rather than in their bedrooms. It provides me with some opportunities to interact with them that I might not have in a bigger house. So perhaps having a small house, at least by our North American standards, is something I should be grateful for. It certainly has allowed me to realize that closeness with my children does and should trump everything, even my occasional dream of moving to a deserted island.
