Kid Amnesiac

When I was about six months pregnant with Simon, I started thinking about what his nursery would look like. I had, as no one who knows me will be surprised to learn, some ideas on the matter. The nursery had to be gender neutral. I wanted real, solid furniture the baby could grow up with. And I wanted to create an old-fashioned, timeless feeling in the room.

As Simon was in utero, he didn’t get a vote. In the end, I was very happy with my soft green walls, ivory rugs, maple sleigh crib, maple Shaker dresser, and the crib set of soft green velvet and black and white toile that vaguely recalled E.H. Shepherd drawings from The Wind in the Willows. On the walls we hung the quilt and a Tolkien illustration from The Hobbit. The room was small but lovely, it was totally me (and also totally Matt), and, save for some hand-painted letters spelling out Simon’s name and some baby photos, it has not changed since he was born.

Now he’s got a big-boy bed on order and is ¾ of the way through toddlerhood. It’s time for his room to reflect him, and the process is telling me more about myself than I bargained for.

As Simon is completely obsessed with balls, trucks, cars, planes, and trains, it was a certainty that his new, boyed-up room would feature elements of this. Many hours of shopping turned up my ideal version of the room. It sported a ducduc modern bed, like this:

and cool transportation-themed sheets like these:

and a fun rug with beach balls on it:

Perfect. Except the total would cost me a fortune, frankly more than I have to spend right now, and it would take an experienced eye to make that bed work in my 1910 house with its high ceilings. There was also no guarantee Simon would be a fan, as the room was clearly the application of my taste to Simon’s interests.

What Simon would no doubt like, if I’d let him choose, is this:

It’s awful, no? I mean, it’s movie merchandising posing as interior design. To my 39-year-old, female eye, it’s ghastly and nothing I ever thought I’d have in my home.  In fact, I think it’s so awful that it would–and it deeply shames me to admit this–embarrass me.

But it’s not supposed to be about or for me, right? This time I’m not creating my dream nursery for my dream baby. I’m creating a room for a young boy who will probably squeal in delight if he gets a rug featuring his friends from Cars. After all, he’s seen the movie at least fifty times. As an added bonus, it’s on sale for $32. So there it is: I can get an expensive rug that I’d like,  or I can get over myself and order the cheap rug that will thrill my son.

I’m ordering it, of course; I’m not that far gone. And if it reminds me that Simon is his own little person with tastes and interests outside my control,  it will be $32 very well spent.

P.S. Speaking of self-growth, it also occurs to me that spending time anguishing over the choice of a rug for Simon’s room is indicative of a life with little room for complaint. I do know that. I’m not that far gone, either!