That corner was the bane of my existence. The bookshelf you see? So adorable and useful when Peanut was a toddler. But nothing in that corner was accessible anymore. You want to play a game? You have to climb over a horse of all things and risk falling into a box of princess dress-up clothing. It's happened to me before, folks. And it's not pretty. You want to do a puzzle? Good luck getting one out without four others falling on you. She had outgrown the only things that were accessible - the books.
It's sad, really. The playroom was our first major project after we bought the house. We poured a lot of money into it. And I couldn't stand being in there. It used to be a screened-in porch that was not functional in the winter or summer, or when it was raining. Other than that, it was great. Combine that lack of functionality with the fact that for the first few months in the house, we kept her toys around the fireplace in our living room, and we desperately needed a playroom. (That also meant no fires that first winter. Meaning I would have to wait an entire year for my inner pyro to emerge.) We had a blank slate, designed it ourselves, and the contractor did a great job:
|Pretty cool, eh?|
Until, of course, Peanut is let loose in there by herself for fifteen minutes. Then she'll call me in to play with her and I'll willingly accept the invitation only to discover a crime scene of Calico Critters, Barbie dolls, and Littlest Pet Shops spewed across the floor.
"Peanut," I say. "You know I don't like to come in here when it's messy like this."
"Then get out," she answers, matter-of-factly.
Our work isn't done with the playroom makeover. There is still this at her craft table in the dining room...
|This is ONE pile. One of many.|
|Procrastination is a virtue|
|This picture gives me heart palpitations|
Peanut's plates, cups and snacks are the new bane of my existence. And that stupid penguin mug that holds her forks and spoons? I want to throw it across the room and shatter it every time I reach for a utensil for her. Why? Because whenever I need a fork, I get a spoon. If I need a spoon, I get a fork. It's like a bad Alanis Morissette song. (And still NOT ironic, by the way.) My solution? I make Peanut set her place at the table. Boom.
Not to mention the Tupperware. The next person to come up with a solution to that organization problem will be very rich. One thing at a time.
Previously on Joys of Homeownership: the handsome man who ended the drama of our wet basement. Click here to read it (and see a picture of that handsome man.)