Bedroom Planning for Three

We made a choice when we moved into this house to prioritize shared social space and minimize rooms lost to bedrooms. In practice, that meant that at first, J and I took a tiny bedroom upstairs, giving Scout our big, weird closet as a “closery” and assigning Pip the identical bedroom across the hall. It worked well, dealing with nocturnal disturbances, because we are all so close to one another.

We moved Scout in with Pippin sometime in the winter, and things went swimmingly. Despite a friend and mother of four promising kids sleep soundly in shared rooms, I was still shocked and awed every time someone would throw up overnight (my kids are barfers), and the other wouldn’t even wake up.

I never shared a bedroom, and boy, was the adjustment to a dorm a doozy (sorry, Megan!). J shared with his brother till he was a teenager. But some of the children I love the best in this generation are stacked two and three to a room, and seem to be surviving and thriving just fine.

As we enter the third trimester countdown (always a little spooked now that this baby might be a 36-weeker, too), I recently picked up a Ikea Kura bunk bed at a yard sale for $25. I had first read about the beds’ flexibility on Camp Patton, and soon found the Internet is chock full of interesting customizations.

We were on a bit of a budget after our summer of exciting, scary purchases, so I set out to use as many hoarded gift cards as possible to outfit Scout’s big girl setup.

  • Bed: $179 for $25 (used)
  • Sheets, waterproof mattress protector, pillow, duvet: $73.62 brought down to $0 by sale, Target gift card and Visa gift card
  • Duvet cover: $31.05 brought down to $6.05 by Visa gift card
  • Mattress: $105 minus $25 Amazon gift card, brought down to $80 (I probably could have gone lower with this, offsetting with more gift cards, but it was just too bleak to spend fun money on a mattress of all things)


That brought the whole project down to just over $111, instead of a projected $388.67 — which would have been much higher if I gave into my deep and abiding (though unrequited) love for Land of Nod bed linens.

There is room, now, for Roo’s crib when we banish her from the closery, when she’s sleeping more soundly through the night, and room for books and hijinks, too. Scout has transferred seamlessly into a big kid bed, which flies in the face of all expectation and just goes to show you that you get the kid you get, and can’t claim credit for much. In time, I’m sure we’ll have to experiment with new arrangements as the kids form preferences and alliances and a need for privacy, but for now, I couldn’t be happier.

Pippin sneaks upstairs with a roll of Scotch tape and adds his art to his bedside and his sister’s.
The tape stash and his treasure box (i.e. All the weird paper junk he insists on keeping)
Roo’s corner. We obviously still need to move that bookcase but the room was clean so I had to photograph fast.

(And for context, the way the room looked when we moved in:

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Yikes.

 

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Big Scary Purchases

I’ve had a mantra this summer as we’ve made several big, scary purchases:

It is my privilege to get to make these decisions.

When it’s overwhelming to decide on grouts. When there are delays in installation. When I’m learning how to drive a much bigger vehicle.

I sometimes find the language of privilege a little exhausting. But after years and years where frugality was a cornerstone of life, it is a novelty, if not an outright blessing, to be getting to shell out on these big, scary purchases that will, I hope, improve the life of our family for years and years to come.

There have been road trips where we crammed into our clown car with two small children, a dog, and quite a lot of associated kid stuff, and that was fine, because we then didn’t have a car payment, but now we have the option of financing a little when we could buy outright and enjoying enough space for our totally alarming amount of juvenile travel junk. There have been years where getting rid of all the mold in our various basement apartments was a (plumbing) pipe dream, so it’s kind of a privilege to wait around for the mold remediation guys now.

This can, of course, be argued further. Many Americans don’t have a reliable vehicle at all, much less the opportunity to upgrade to one spacious enough for their family. Many people long for children and would give anything to contend with the amount of junk that often accompanies parenthood. Or push beyond: not only am I lucky not have to have a moldy sink, but in the global perspective, I’m dang lucky to have running water in my home.

In that past life, I was never very patient when people would talk at length about their intense struggles to find the perfect shade of burgundy curtains or whatever. Like, does that really count as a legitimate frustration? In practice, this now mostly means that sure, I’ll talk your ear off about quartz versus soapstone if you’re in the market, too, but otherwise, I’ll keep my burdens of privilege to myself. So maybe we’ll have to go a few days without a kitchen sink this summer. So maybe J had to spend a day of vacation negotiating with used car salesmen when he’d rather be doing practically anything else, and we would have preferred a vacation to England over budgeting necessary home repairs.

It is certainly a pain in the butt to be a grownup and a homeowner, but right now, it’s better (for us) than the alternative.

The agony and the ecstasy, et cetera

Idolatry, Control and Ownership: The Story of the Toy Closet

 

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The toy closet: a place of great joy and mystery, usually child-locked to save us from utter ruin

This week I dropped a lot of nice toys off at the local thrift shop and felt…scared.

What if we need them again? What if I’m not grateful for the generosity of the people who love my children? Are these even really mine to give away?
It’s scary going, but I’m finally beginning to see these thoughts for what they are: my attempt to control things with things.
My husband knows how to treat yo’self. He will buy himself nice things if he’s going to use them, and sometimes those nice things will get broken or lost, because he is basically a boisterous human border collie.
I am not that way. In Divergent terms, I’m Abnegation, 110%. I am good at caring for things and saving them, often past the point of usefulness, as my childhood hoard of pristine sticker sheets attests. If someone gives me a gift, I want to honor the gift and the giver by keeping it forever. If it belongs to my children, I — ludicrously — want their permission before I give it away. (Refresher: my kids are 3 and 10 months.)
J buys himself things and I, mostly, don’t. (With the exciting recent exception of a new bite guard we’re getting me with our hefty tax return: PARTY ON.) And it’s easy to see that self-denial as virtue, if you’re already inclined in that direction.
But as I get older, I begin to see that strict frugality, that unwillingness to let go, for the handicap it most certainly is. I want to protect my family by being prepared for everything, and by saving money so that I’m never vulnerable. It’s squirrelly thinking, and bogs me down so that I can’t accept life as it comes, and the generosity of people as I need it. I don’t want my kids to be this way, and everywhere I look are gentle suggestions that it’s better for children to be weighed down with less physical junk.
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Has 1000 toys, prefers to play with diaper boxes and the infant bathtub. You know.
So I am experimenting with being freer with belongings, not just in terms of the bulging toy closet. When I’m packing for a trip, I try to remember just the one or two items we each must have in order to function. When I’m weeding baby clothes, I try to give away a bit beyond the point of comfort. I push scenarios out of the way: twins or another truck lover or Pippin remembering, six months later, about his second-string garbage truck, long since handed on. God has provided for the kids thus far, and I can’t protect hypothetical future offspring with a hoarded wardrobe, much as I’d like to.