I’m sitting now in my very own office space. It is a little cubby space, next to the furnace and opposite the washer and dryer. The drywall is not even taped or mudded. It is not pretty and it is small and ought to make my claustrophibic body tremble with despair.
And yet, Saturday evening I was able to sneak down here on the pretense of changing the laundry and take a peak at a blog or two. With the furnace blasting next to me and the washer and dryer spinning in their cycles, I was in blissful ignorance of all the other activity in the house. Couldn’t even hear the noise of girls running from one end of the house to the other. So is it any wonder I screamed in surprise when my husband showed up at my side wondering “you going to stay down here all night?”
But the cats have found me and jump up and wind themselves in the space between some drawers and my laptop screen and ask fervently to be petted. And then one has taken a liking to chewing on the corners of the screen and that, of course, will not do.
It is warm, here, and it is small. And it is mine (though now and then I rent out the area on the desk where my mouse ought to go to a very persistent feline). But just this small plot of land to call my own makes me giddy and think I might actually be nice to the other people who live in this house again.
Christmas break found us working hard to create a bedroom in the basement where my oldest child now lives. Which means all the girls now have rooms of their own, and this has made such in a difference in this small house that tends to get overrun with Estrogen. Virginia Woolfe was dead-on. We all need a room (or a nook) of our own. Even if we have to share it with our persistent four-pawed, fuzzy friends.