By Melanie Dale
@melanierdale

“UGH,” I blurted, disgusted with my whole life or maybe just this kitchen chair with the worn grooves from the booster seat that rubbed it raw for years. That seat now holds an adult-sized butt at the dinner table, at least whenever she’s off work and home to join us.

I looked around the kitchen and my eyes landed on the counter, completely covered in dirty dishes, articles of clothing, and random school supplies. Didn’t anyone else in this family know how to put a dish in the dishwasher?

“Everything okay?” My husband eyed me warily.

“Everything is just … WORN, and this stupid counter is always messy,” I groaned. 

My whole house feels worn and old. Sometimes I look around and feel frustration bubble up and I want a home makeover. My wood floors are groovy, and I don’t mean in a swinging sixties way, but they have literal grooves where we’ve scooted the couch a million times, and the finish is totally worn off by the leaky window in the front. Our couch is old and no amount of steam cleaning will bring the arms of it back to life. I rest my arm there and feel bare wood with just a thin film of microfiber covering it, the stuffing long gone.

Our incontinent dog has peed on every surface in the house, and the kitchen table, which we inherited from someone who inherited it from someone who found it on the side of the road, has been scrubbed down to the raw wood underneath. Years of Sharpie and Magic Marker replace the shiny finish of yore. The carpet came with the house, construction grade and light enough to show every pee sprinkle and nail polish fiasco. Raising kids and pets is hard on a house.

Our stovetop has a gouge in it that’ll draw blood if you don’t approach it with caution, and the handle of the microwave is just about to fall off. The sinks are stained and the showers are worse, and I want the HGTV people to fix it all. I walk around with that Natalie Imbruglia song in my head, except instead of “Torn,” it’s “Worn.” “I’m cold and I am shamed lying naked on the floor.” The groovy, worn floor.

I see the people around me get new things, new floors, new sofas, new bathroom remodels, and I feel jealous. I lust after their shiplaps and farmhouse sinks. Why can’t we have nice things, too?

Our house is getting worn, and I worry it’s a manifestation of my life. Is my life getting worn, too? Is my 20-year marriage worn? Are my snarky teens who stomp about the house leaving wrappers and cans in their wake getting worn? Am I a worn-out fortysomething in need of a makeover myself?

I know even if I replaced everything in the house down to the last lightbulb, it would only give me fleeting relief from the discontentment lodged in my heart. Someone would spill something, the dog would pee, and we’d continue on this merry-go-round. I dig deeper to find thankfulness in my laundry room, in my kitchen, in my den with the cabinets that won’t close.

Years ago, I had an emergency housekeeper come bail me out of the mess we’d made when I was in a pinch, and as I was showing her the rooms, apologizing for the clutter, she said, “You live in your home.” That simple, factual statement has stuck with me through the years, as washer loads of cloth diapers segued to loads of bras that aren’t mine. We live in our home. We use every last inch of its space, from the basement bathroom to the attic storage. I fold laundry in our formal dining room on the table stained from leaky jars of bubbles the kids got one year. The kids use the downstairs bathroom that’s supposed to stay nice for company to brush their teeth, shave their legs, and administer various hair rituals. Every inch of this house is clomped in, sprayed on, and cluttered.

Creating a life as a family means loving it through all its stages, and we are in Stage Worn. Our kids are hard on our house, and it’s okay.

I mean, I want it to be okay.

Okay is a work in progress.

My house, my life, is developing a patina from the years of wear and tear, and patinas can be pretty.

I came home last weekend after a two-day swim meet with my son, and as I walked into the kitchen, I saw the counter, and it was clean. It gave me a friendly glimmer. My husband walked in the room.

“Thank you for the clean counter,” I said.

“I knew it would make you less stressed,” he answered.

I hugged him. I can’t have new things or clutter-free rooms right now, but he gave me a counter, one gleaming beacon of sanity amidst the chaos. And I felt loved.

I sighed. It was good to be home.

Photo by Lottie Caiella.