There’s an old Chinese proverb that goes something like this: If the leg lamp matches the walls, don't unplug it and put it in the basement.
I reference it because Chuck and I are in the midst of a little game called "musical rooms."
Our upstairs consists of our bedroom, Junior’s bedroom, cat hair, a bathroom (remember this one?), my very pink office and Chuck’s odoriferous man room.
When we found out I was pregnant, I was ready and willing to surrender my room…to a girl. I envisioned plopping her crib into my she-cave and letting her revel in the pink, the flowers and show-girl lamps.
Most of all, I imagined that the wise words of Virginia Woolf, Joan Didion, and Maxine Hong Kingston (The Woman Warrior—grrrr!) would drift from my bookshelf
and into her brain as she peacefully slumbered. Their words would help her to become the kind of woman society doesn’t want her to be: an empowered woman who can keep her pants on.
Yes, I was eager to try and raise a smart non-slut.
As we all know, when we plan on rosebuds, life sometimes gives us a garden full of penises (that’s another proverb).
Unwilling to paint my office blue and lose my leg lamp, I shifted my eyes towards Chuck’s man room. It’s disheveled and frightening. I know there's a Mulletville fugitive hiding at the bottom of his closet:
Un-understandably, Chuck isn’t keen on giving up his space. Can you believe this guy? In a house that’s soon to be bursting with testosterone, he’s worried about having personal space for farting and scratching. Meanwhile, after Boy #2 enters the world, I’m worried I’m going to need my pink foo-foo shit more than ever. Like a crackhead needs crack. I can see myself licking the girly lampshades on bad days. I'm serious.
So all weekend, I worked on Chuck. And finally, somewhere in between Fourth of July hotdog number five and six, he offered this compromise: he'd give up his man room to Junior and the new kid, and he'd move his moldy socks and comic books into Junior's room.
Sounds great, right? But here's my question: What's your experience with shared bedrooms? When I shared a room with my older step-sister, she laid barbed wire around her bed because she thought I had preteen cooties. I felt like a leper. On the flip side, Chuck and his brother giggled the night away in their shared bedroom.
Can it really work?
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.