A Space to Call My Own (sort of)

You'd think that as a grown woman, one who has lived separate from her parents for 11 years (I was a late bloomer, OK!?), I would have a space of my own already. And I suppose I do, in a way. One nice little farmhouse on the prairie.

But my house has a dirty little secret, one that I don't share with everyone.



It has.....children!



As any mother knows, children have a way of oozing into even the most sacred spaces. Most of the time your maternal instincts kick in and you don't mind---you may even find it enjoyable. But every once in a while, a mother's heart yearns for her own little space.

Just one little spot to indulge in her hobbies and personal development. You know---the things she used to do.

Well, I finally got one. A small island in an ocean of community.

A work table for my sewing machine!

I picked up this little table at the thrift shop (where else?). It had a raunchy piece of Formica stuck to it with some kind of tar tape. The lady gave it to me for $5 because it looked so bad.

But my eye pierced beneath its sad exterior and saw the gem it could be. I ripped the ugly top off, sanded it (not as well as it needed, but I was outside in the wind and it was cold), and painted it a cheery color.

 

The table used to be a school desk and children had amused themselves through the years by writing their names along the top of the drawer.

I left that part unpainted because I think the history is cool...

Now it stands in my living room awaiting an influx of mending, my own little oasis of personal space. Until John gets home for the weekend and has to put all his stuff there. But hey, baby steps...baby steps.