A Desk for a Daughter: Three Pieces of Furniture That Shaped My Entry Into Motherhood.
I could feel myself shrinking.
A slow, deliberate confining of self that resulted from each positive life change. As life grew in love and commitment, many outward signs of “me” were packed away into progressively smaller outlets.
As I write this, I am nine months pregnant, stretched to a capacity that couldn’t be confused with the normal understanding of shrinking. Yet as my central focus grows, the periphery of all that existed before, must cower to make room.
At my most expanded, my belongings and small representations of personal life were proudly displayed in the entirety of the home that I owned, as well as an extra space that I claimed, my chiropractic office. Every room, closet, drawer, and bookshelf represented the things in my life that I’ve collected, treasured, and took care of. They in return, took care of me. At the age of 28, I felt as big as my belongings and accomplishments, busting at the seams of my potential life.
I learned quickly, however, that the demands of life can change whilst in the middle of a sewing project.
When it came time to commit to a future marriage, my office was emptied, and the house boxed up. A major purge of furniture and aesthetic belongings took place at that time. While bittersweet, I gladly chose to temporarily shapeshift when preparing to share a life with someone. So,
I downsized… Prioritizing the things that would come with me into a new life of we.
I turned over… Taking my well earned first home key off the ring and replacing it with a copy of my now husband’s established key.
Moving into my husband’s house was a respectful and slow commandeering of a space, a “bloom where you are planted” type of path. I opened a new office within a few weeks of moving, a sacred space that still smelled and looked like my previous life, but in the house, it took time to feel like I belonged in the space. I made Marina-esc tweaks like painting, re-arranging, and decorating for years until I could sit down and confidently call it home.
As every woman knows, the moment you sit down to submit to comfort, life beckons with urgency. Our first child was suddenly on the horizon, chemically encouraging me to change the well-designed space to accommodate for “more.” More mass within the same confines requires something to be removed, so, once again,
I downsized… Rooms were moved and clothes were inevitably donated, embracing the reality of a bodily change and the maturity that comes with it.
I turned over… Pictures of friends and family were covered over with newborn portraits and action shots of my stunning little man.
My beautiful trio of a family enjoyed two years of filling in the crevices of our house with love. In that time, I adjusted and made good use of all rooms outside of my bedroom that I could find peaceful practices within.
If staying inside didn’t work, I snuck out. A common and personally deemed “unnecessary” stroll through a favorite store was often the medicine needed. I visited the wicker warehouse on my island, a decor store that for decades, has sold the promise of nautical comforts ranging in price from trinket to treasure. My father’s Mom brought me here as a child to hunt its aisles for whatever small token spoke to me that day. Thirty years later, I kept coming, imagining walking through with her.
On this special day, it was a different grandmother figure that would enlighten me. Under the exposed wooden shelves, a set of four white holiday mugs caught my eye. I reached out to their gold snowflakes, imagining cooler weather in the August air. A woman nearby saw me hesitate before collecting the mugs. She said “oh go for it” and made sure I knew that a matching creamer was on the opposite side of the aisle. I laughed and said “thank you, but I barely need these and my husband will love that I’m buying things for Christmas in the summer.” She smiled up to her eyes when she said “that’s why women shop alone.” And with the conviction and elegance of age, she reminded me that we aren’t here looking for need, “and besides,” she offered, “That’s why every woman needs a chest.”
I grasped her meaning. Every woman needed a personal space at home to guiltlessly collect her treasures.
Somehow, within the week, I manifested an in-person purchase of a beautiful chest that was ideal for my home. Stopping at a nearby thrift store, I held my breath scanning the musty ground for something wooden that I could fix up. What I found instead, was a perfectly polished, painted, and protected wooden chest for sale by a local artists. It smelled perfect inside the lid and didn’t require any effort on my part besides the transfer of cash. Placing it at the foot of the bed in my guestroom felt like a major female accomplishment.
Symbolically, the chest seemed like an outward representation of my mouth. Not the active mouth that regularly ingests and speaks but the mental mouth. The mouth that prepares to speak but instead, sits on small seeds of thought, saving them for a future where the impact is greatest. My chest cannot be locked but somehow, it is respected in my home as a place that only Mommy can fill or empty. Besides, everything within it holds only personal value; it doesn’t tempt my boys. What was once was called a hope chest, I now understand that a chest like this acts like the home of unspoken wishes, inhaled and held in retention, fueling future hopes before calling them to life when it’s time.
My wooden chest became a year-round home to put away small gifts that reminded me of a loved one, saved until the right day to present it to them, Christmas or a birthday perhaps. After taking so many months to fill it, there was a glaring emptiness in the space after the holidays passed. Little did I know that emptying the chest after my son’s second Christmas was in preparation for another great accumulation.
As soon as we felt like ourselves again, having found routine and stability in our son’s capabilities, life came beckoning once more. We weren’t finished as parents and a new baby was on the way. It was a cherished addition to our nuclear unit but one that made the most drastic shift in my awareness of spaciousness. Instinctively,
I downsized…My sacred space of a chiropractic office was closed, and I came home with a car full of tools, texts, and identities that I was unsure of where to store. I had to admit to myself that this felt more permanent than leaving for maternity time with my son. I couldn’t fully ensure that I’d return to professionalism after a life with two children began.
I turned over… Moving my son out of the nursery into a guest room meant that I was losing a home office space and designated yoga room. I lost the closet that held my wedding dress and off-season clothing in. I had to purge more of my “just in case outfits” to maximize space in a shared closet.
My son’s new room was lined with books that had moved around the country with me between temporary living conditions. The cork board was pin filled with precious pictures, notes, or affirmations. The world map on the wall marked places I’ve traveled to and left room for hopeful adventures yet to be marked. Boxing everything up to make my son comfortable felt like a severing, a submission to accepting that I would not experience travel or mental stimulation for quite some time as a second time mother-to-be.
I loved making up his “big boy room” but the stack of books that lined the hallway floor for weeks made me queasy. My husband and I had a shared a bookshelf in the most visible room in our house downstairs but that wasn’t the place to store my precious and semi-private titles. My son now had a personal bookshelf and even my baby girl had beautiful built-ins waiting for her in her nursery.
Maybe not the traditional urge for nesting mothers, but a new and personal bookshelf was the answer to much of my inner turmoil and angst at that time. Instead of fighting the sense that yet again, life was asking me to shrink, I responded by saying “no, I’ll re-organize and make the existing space more efficient.”
I looked at a few feet of blank wall in our master bedroom with new eyes. I knew it held the potential for the solution I was looking for. I ordered a white, ladder shaped shelf, to offer bright contrast against my colorful books and to preserve a spaciousness in my room. I love the influence that books on display can offer when intentionally designed. Color coordinated per usual, this open air furniture was the right touch to regularly comfort me in my time of shape shifting.
For me, the bookshelf was like my eyes. Not the quickly connecting eyes that interact with daily patients or acquaintances but my intimate eyes, the eyes that shine love on an inner circle, exchanging intentional energy and shared beliefs. Like my ladder shaped bookshelf, intimate eyes are open and exposed layers of colorful information. On display in the privacy of my bedroom, I feel protective of the titles and contents within the books on each shelf. I don’t lend these books out or share my experiences of learning alongside them, and I can close the door if I don’t want them to be seen. Afterall, these books are an imprint of the many versions of me, “friends” that accelerated my sense of self and knowledge before delivering me graciously to marriage and motherhood.
Again, I could feel myself shrinking…
I was eight months pregnant with my daughter and dwelling on the fact that my personal space had dwindled so far. I kneeled in front of my wooden chest to take out prized possessions that no one knew that I owned.
One small knit hat made to look like a strawberry, a clothes set of sunflowers and leaves, and a gentle blanket that I bought the previous year during a temporary pregnancy.
I kept these hopes, stored away in tissue paper, until feeling safe enough to claim, “I’m having a daughter. My girl is almost here.” As the chest opened, the stale air came out, releasing any grief that was sealed within.
I smirked at the reality that besides my wooden chest, nothing in my house was off limits to tiny hands, especially my body. My body was a playground for two babies and we were open 24/7. This loss of personal space, time, and endeavors is a great change that I longed and loved for, but, a loss none the less.
Thankfully then, a third wooden gift came into my life. On a day where I mindlessly scrolled on social media giving my daughter time to dance weightlessly inside, my finger froze. As if she could tell the importance of what I was seeing, she paused as well.
A local thrift store had posted a picture of a newly donated secretary desk that was now for sale. It glowed with ownership. Beautifully preserved and old fashioned in its masterful craftsmanship, I had never felt old enough to crave a piece of furniture. But this desk, lined with drawers for my things beneath the showcase of two beveled glass doors, had the golden ticket…a brass key.
The fact that I could choose to display parts of myself and my former life in the glass section above, yet lock precious notebooks, artwork, and ritual-style trinkets below, was enough to press send on the dial. I owned the desk within five minutes of seeing it online. I didn’t mind at all when the woman over the phone warned me that there was one scratch on the front, I also had a scar across my midsection from motherhood, and I’m still a keeper.
When the piece came in, it was more beautiful than I could have imagined, glowing with the care that the previous owners must have demonstrated to preserve it. I dutifully vowed to continue the watch as I filled it with tiny possessions that were carelessly shoved into closets, attics, and boxes beneath the bed. Having the stages of me accessible and partially displayed once more, helped prepare me to embrace a new version of motherhood. Just by walking near the furniture, I could feel all versions of a previous Marina, cheering us on.
The Secretary Desk felt like a representation of my memory. A piece that stirred the waters of nostalgia and helped restore memories of playing in my grandmother’s secretary desk, it reminded me that I have loved to organize words and my “works” since first grade. Each cavity of the desk was now filled with individual representations of rituals, hobbies, and passions that, in a collective effort, describe me…
The me that hasn’t changed underneath so much alteration.
The memory me that encourages or discourages modern decisions.
The me that I’ll always come back to, after downsizing and turning over.
Because I refuse to throw out precious items that act as a portal to valuable memories, I can always return to what it is about me that is indispensable. And that value, restored by three pieces of wooden furniture, is not influenced by the malleability of life.
I don’t believe men are natural collectors or curators such as women. Of course, men like belongings that bring fulfillment and joy, but their focus tends to be on the acquiring of things.
Women, in my experience, focus their continued energy in the display and cycling of belongings, out in the open one season and then hidden away in the next. This ebb and flow of internal versus external matches our cyclic nature, a process of arranging and re-arranging to self-affirm that what we hold precious remains.
For women, it’s..
As instinctual as cats who display their conquests.
As comforting as mother birds who build nests with the treasures that they find.
As fantastical as mermaid troves and a dragon’s lair…
Women need space.
Space to both preserve and store the things that need safekeeping, as well as space to display what makes us smile.
I hope that you, a woman of endless shape and form, have a few gifts such as these in your home space. For in summary, a Chest, a Bookshelf, and a Secretary Desk taught me that:
Less is not the problem, more is not the solution. Shaping life in early motherhood depends on redefining the value of the space you do have… To claim in truth, and perhaps in style, the space that you need.