I sit at a small round table that serves as our eating space, homework station, clutter collector-- a place for bills and paperwork and Olive's artwork.
Elias's iPad sits next to my laptop along with a pair of mittens, scissors, three coffee cups, a calendar, a notebook, newspapers, pens, a water bottle, a used paper towel, and a red headband with a bow.
And that's the short list of what surrounds me at this small round table in this small square cabin.
If I look up I can see our unmade bed a few feet away, a basket of laundry waits at the door. The fridge sits to my right, next to a small stove, a lone counter top cluttered with kitchen appliances, dishes, olive oil, bananas, a spaghetti squash
Ladder-like steps lead to the loft, where Elias and Olive sleep three-feet apart.
Her side a chaotic storm of clothes, art supplies, books, blankets, stuffed animals, thrown into piles she sorts through at bedtime when her creative mind alights.
Elias's side contains bags of our extra towels, sheets, coats, my clothes that don't fit into the eight cubbies I shove the rest into downstairs.
The three-foot pathway between their beds serves as a point of contention, as Olive continually spreads to his side of the loft.
"Why is Olive's coat up here? Olive's coat doesn't belong up here."
In Elias's world of predictable patterns, coats belong on the hooks on the side of the stairs. In Olive's world of creative chaos, coats belong wherever they happen to fall. Shoes too, the middle of the cabin, the tiny bathroom, in the space between their mattresses on the floor.
"Why are Olive's shoes up here? Olive's shoes don't belong up here."
Sometimes I feel like our life is on a continual loop. Press play, repeat, play, repeat. Olive disrupts the organization and Elias asks why.
Someday we will all have bedroom doors. A much-coveted room of our own.
And yet, I think we might miss these cramped cabin quarters-- the way we can all hear each other breathe if we lay awake with our worries, our wonders, in the middle of the night.
The call of "Mom" doesn't need to be shouted to gain my attention.
Hugs are always within reach.
I waiver between comfort in this cluster of bodies and belongings and a claustrophobic unease that leaves me ready to scream--Give me space--when my children or the dogs stand too close.
When Elias stands up from the table and walks three feet towards me, as I cook him salmon tacos for breakfast, to tell me what he just told Nick from his seat.
"I could hear you Bud, we are all in the same room."
Or when Olive walks into the bathroom to ask me for a treat: "We can have this conversation in a minute," I say from the toilet seat as I swallow another scream.
I wonder, when we finally move into our house, will our voices echo across the walls as we search for each other?
Will we miss the way we stepped on each others toes, in our dance around the kitchen, as I moved towards the fridge, Nick to the stove, our children orbiting our rotations?
Will the much-longed-for addition of closets give us too many places to hide?
Or will our love grow more expansive with all those rooms to fill with memories, with meaning, with light?
I guess on this Friday morning, I'm just thankful for shelter, and family, no matter the size.
Happy Friday all!
So right...sometimes less IS more, when you have the basics...and love.
Posted by: Essie | 03/02/2018 at 09:46 AM
Remember when you thought dorm rooms were tiny.....?
Posted by: ColbyS. | 03/03/2018 at 05:14 PM
Our dorm room was bigger than this cabin! And yes Essie, less can be so much more!
Posted by: Christy | 03/13/2018 at 11:36 AM