Here you'll find current musings, as well as the archives from two blogs of yesteryear: YoungMarriedMom and What I Learned While Writing a Novel. Please comment and share. We love well when we are in conversation with one another.
One of the major reasons we made the move from Manhattan to Brooklyn was to have more space. You get a lot more room for your dollar in Brooklyn than you do on the Upper East Side. And while we do have a nice, spacious two-bedroom apartment, one we can certainly continue to grow into, any kind of city living means being creative.
Exhibit A: Our current coat closet (which, to be fair, is just outside the kitchen) houses not only coats but folding chairs, serving platters, cake and muffin pans, and our recycling bins. So far, I think I’ve managed to keep any stray bits of tuna or soda off our outerwear, but if I start to smell like lemon-lime fish early next winter, I won’t be entirely surprised.
Exhibit B: Jacob’s closet. A selling (or renting!) point for our apartment was the tremendous amount of closet space. Each bedroom has a whole wall of closets, with all kinds of shelving and organizers built in. To compare: Our last apartment had two teeny closets for the entire space—only one of which was in the bedroom, and the other wasn’t located in a good place to be used for coats, or anything other than stuff we didn’t really want to see very often (read: the ironing board).
Now we have tons of space, but it’s concentrated in the bedrooms. And since Jacob doesn’t really know what’s going on in his room yet, we’ve usurped his closet space. As his parents and payers of the rent, I think we are fully justified in doing this. On the other hand, let’s examine what we store in there, apart from his clothes, bed linens, toys, etc.:
– the vacuum
– a bag of pita chips
– extra paper towel rolls
– a fancy candle we haven’t found space for yet
– cans of soda
Sounds kind of like the common room in a college dormitory, huh? I guess we’ll have to do some reorganizing before he learns to work the doors. . . . . Until then, I will alternately giggle and cringe when I ask John how much beer is left in the baby’s room.
Ah, city living!