When I search for knick knacks to make hearth and home a comfortable place to be, one of my essentials is the perfect chair. My use of the word perfect should indicate that I”m not just referring to a folding chair, or some glorified stool. The perfect chair for me is deeply colored and plush, with just enough room for me and a plus one.
In New Orleans, I’d found the holy grail of chairs: midnight blue with large pillows and heavily padded arms. It was perfect for me to sit in and read on a winter’s day. The plus one aspect was more for my babies. At the end of the day, I would sit with them in that chair, one at a time, and listen to them discuss the woes of kindergarten and day care. I’d brush Finge’s waves, and undo Ladybug’s braids as they purged. Sometimes we’d all pile in that big chair together, despite the fact that there was a perfectly comfortable, and large sofa only a few steps away. The closeness was the thing that healed what ailed them. I loved that part of the day. Thinking back, I’m grateful for seeming to take the time to enjoy them as tiny kids, since college will be here before you know it.
The right chair is still a household staple. We still have our times to crowd one another, and we love it. As they are both gangly and uncoordinated, I spend more time catching elbows to the eye and boob, but I wouldn’t really trade it. I can’t explain how satisfying it is to fortify your child’s spirit. I like being the healer – the fixer.
Admittedly, sometimes I feel the need to be “fixed.” Saying that holds a carnal implication for which I won’t apologize, but that’s not exactly what I mean. I heal. I fix. Rare is the time where I am healed or fixed. Make no mistake, I’m immeasurably blessed, and I have great friends who love and cherish me. I’m so lucky for people who can tell when I’m not myself, and they step in to lift my spirit. I don’t mean to sound like an ingrate. I’d love to experience the teeniest bit of more that accompanies intimacy. I’d love to sit in my chair, with a plus one whose fingers are buried in my hair sharing secrets, fears, or silence. It’s seeking a different type of satisfaction and fulfillment.
But I”m not supposed to admit that, right? Because that’s “thirsty.” Ah well. *gulp*