Bring on those dirty little hands,
Microfiber is my new hero.
Anyone of a certain age understands life’s close relationship with enormous irony.
One that I recently discovered was the Grandma Décor Dilemma.
Every mother knows when babies become mobile, a serious redecorating effort occurs.
Glass is replace with wood or Formica, all tabletop items are wrapped for storage or placed on higher shelves. A great cover up is afoot to save at least a scintilla of worldly goods.
But now we have microfiber.
Ah microfiber! No, not micro greens, the new word for lettuce scraps on your plate. The new miracle fiber that battles chocolate, peanut better and sandbox residue lurking on adorable, busy, little hands.
A new practically indestructible fabric that resembles suede resists stains and was definitely designed with Grandmas in mind. I am smiling just remembering when my children roamed the house and valuables were secured and safely placed aside in high-placed locked boxes more inaccessible than my youth.
Living with sparseness of design as a Mom, has now been coined minimalist, I believe just to up the price tag.
I recall the tumult of more toys than Santa’s workshop covering my floors, while I dreamed of house beautiful.
Perusing home magazines with a sad sigh, wishing for a time when I could actually consider a white sofa and glass tables was sheer heaven.
A toy-free zone to display my crystal and fine pieces openly and freely far from their storage prisons.
Lalique, Daum, Waterford would dance across my dreams carrying rainbows of champagne and canapés onto regally appointed buffets and glass, cocktail tables.
As the years flew by, and as we know they do fly, my children grew to adulthood.
My new adult child home was filled with white sofas, glass tables and matching towels in the guest bathroom. Ah, all those forbidden fruits of décor.
The years passed in a haze of entertaining with “good” china still bearing the flakes of sawdust from the original shipping container, crystal glasses and silver flatware.
I felt like the Queen of England and as strange as it might sound to Meghan Markle, life felt pretty damn good in the royal palace. Paper plates were verboten and I could even hear the sound of fork hitting china when I cut my chicken.
Ah, but then the tide turned once more. Suddenly a new arrival signaled the end of all that opulence. The splendor, the elegance destined to disappear from the landscape once again.
“He” had arrived. My first grandson, the new king and now the palace became all about nothing more than “Him” and what suited “His Highness’s ” needs. Suddenly there were Sesame street plastic dishes and tippee cups, organic cloths and toys, and green smoothies with unknown ingredients that my daughter insisted enhanced life.
The boxes appeared once more. Bubble paper and bubble bursting filled quiet moments between emptying tables and glass shelves filled with delicate chachkees.
Once again my life was filled with toy-filled corners, empty tabletops and baby step stools. Shelves that had once displayed French Limoges, now flaunted frames filled with baby pictures.
Over lunches, my friends and I discussed how to make room for storage cabinets and redo a bedroom with a toddler theme. Discussions of new colors and designs that were the rage in baby world replaced the latest handbag, new boutique opening, vacation spot or Pilate’s injury.
Our iphones overflowed with the latest photos of Halloween costumes, petting zoos and hugging grandma pics.
Cars sported baby car seats and books, toys and hand cleaners were shoved in seat pockets.
Some of my wealthier friends hired designers and muralists to create a special theme. Shimmer and Shine, Paw Patrol, Dora the Explorer and Bubble Guppies were hot. We discussed singing groups like Yo Gabba Gabba recalling how our parents had laughed at our obsession with the Beatles.
Rainbows, dinosaurs and computers were also on board as décor stalwarts.
A new vibe hovered over our regular get togethers as toys, pictures and brilliant baby quotes took center stage. It was toddler town all day every day and we were proud residents reveling in our new roles.
Instead of the latest gallery opening, we exchanged news about children’s exhibits and virtual play areas. New ideas about what to do days we had, “the little angels” were passed around like refills of champagne at a Beverly Hills gala.
We wore the name grandma as proudly as couture and shamelessly bragged and repeated baby stories ad nauseum.
Our computer screen savers were full size pictures of smiling partially, toothed grins that changed with each new development.
It had finally happened—we were grandmas—and our homes had gone from chic to child friendly in a heartbeat.
And strangely enough none of us seemed to mind a bit.
Our priorities had shifted from fabulous to fun and we were happy to forego our designer duds for jeans and sweats for crawling and wrestling when necessary.
I suppose life is ultimately about surrounding yourself with the people you love and yes, that means with the things they love as well.
So, until my grandsons develop a taste for Waterford and other such finery, it shall be unbreakable and easy if you pleasey.