Interior Designs

Hello, friend. Thank you for joining me here!

I am happy to report that our daughter’s room is officially finished! She is even happier than I. Though so much of the farmhouse is a renovation mess, I have decided to focus on the positive. It’s really easy to look only at what isn’t done yet when you take on a project of this scope, and frankly that gets depressing! So, I thought it might be fun to lighten things up and tell you about Finley’s Rainbow Wonderland. It was most definitely a journey.

Seven years ago, when I found out we were having a girl, I was beyond thrilled. I am very close to my own mom, and I was excited and hopeful to have the same kind of relationship with a daughter. I spent the early months of my pregnancy in the company of All The Way at The Neil Simon Theatre. I can’t tell you how much subway and dressing room time was spent scrolling through baby gear. We weren’t telling anyone yet, so I cradled my iPad protectively on my lap, eyes wide as I dreamt of the world I would create for my girl. There was So. Much. Pink. Pink clothes, pink blankets, pink toys. It hurt my eyes, not to mention my sensibilities. I consider myself to be a very feminine woman, but I had never been a pink girl. It felt so obvious, so sticky sweet, so reductive of what being female can be. I found myself going out of my way to locate non-pink versions of every baby item available. There would be no princess crap. I felt kind of righteous about it, in fact. Nobody puts baby in the rosé.

In addition to my no-pink rule, I also felt extremely anti-plastic. Why in the world would I let my pure and innocent child gnaw on a potentially cancer causing substance made in a factory? No bueno. I was also repelled by any kid item with batteries. Flashing lights, loud noises=unacceptable. I imagined peace in the nursery. I had a vision of only giving this daughter handmade, naturally occurring fibers and materials in neutrals or organically saturated colors. You see where this is going, don’t you? It’s always so obvious in retrospect to spot someone who has so clearly set themselves up for a fall.

Despite what we both know is coming, I was able to control my own baby registry and did receive or purchase many of the requested items: a hand carved sandalwood comb, a sheepskin rug, organic cotton onesies, a ceramic night light and a handful of tasteful, yet quirky, stuffed animals. I remember visiting one of my best friends, Julie, in Los Angeles when I was pregnant. Her son was around 4 at the time. We went to a few baby stores to look at cribs and essentials, and I basically had a meltdown in the aisles. She was showing me items that her son had enjoyed as a newborn and infant—things with high contrast patterns, some in plastic, a few with batteries. I told her straight faced, and with no small amount of blossoming defensiveness, that we would not be having those things at our house. To her credit, she did not laugh directly into my face. She paused and took a breath and gently explained why said items were helpful for child development and what their experience had been. Now, if you know me well, you know how stubborn I can be. Julie also knows this. I am amazed that she did not sit me down for a come-to-Jesus Motherhood Talk, but I was a hormonal pregnant version of my already obstinate self. Let’s call Julie wise here. Very wise. We left the store with only a few inarguably charming Jellycat stuffed animals, but the memory of my absolute terror over all the stuff coming at me that I might not be able to control made a lasting impression. My old therapist used to say, “If it’s hysterical, it’s historical.” Judging by my level of insta-panic, there were some old issues just lurking around baby’s corner…

Ok, so my ex-husband had a fear of color. As we were decorating and furnishing our home, he wanted all the rooms to be painted some form of beige. Also the furniture. And the rugs. I guess that made him feel calm. Red terrified him. There is definitely a lot to unpack there…but that’s for him to decipher. At any rate, on the colors in that house, I deferred to him. Hear that? I went with it. I am embarrassed to admit this now. Do you remember the movie ‘The Runaway Bride,’ in which Julia Roberts played an oft-engaged woman who no longer knew what she liked because in every relationship she adapted her preferences to match that of her mate? The telling scene had her unable to order eggs the way she preferred them because she didn’t know what that was anymore. Now, I do know how I like my food—that’s another area where I’m headstrong—but I allowed my ex’s lack of comfort with color to drain it from my word. He was quite a bit older than I and further along the road of success in our mutually chosen field, and I often came up against the feeling that he was an authority. I was not old enough, nor wise enough at the time, to understand this dynamic consciously. I loved him, and I thought he was just great, and why not have a tranquil taupe couch? What did I care? I could be calm. I did yoga. And hey, we could have paintings with color! Voila, look at that perfect solution! I felt a bit of smugness in finding such an easy a compromise—I used it as cocktail conversation, in fact. But that seemingly innocuous paint covered more than just walls. You make a little compromise one day, another the next, and so on, and so on, until one day you look around and you don’t see anything that resembles where you came from. My same wise therapist told me as I was leaving the marriage that when a person takes only a tiny amount of poison at each meal, they don’t really notice it—until it reaches a toxic tipping point. Quite simply: it’s all OK until it’s not.

I tell you all of this, friend, only because it might help explain why color in my living space became pretty important to me on the other side of divorce. It was a symbol. Once I was single again, I had to soul search to figure out what I liked on my own. I remember being gobsmacked that I could just buy a couch without anyone else’s permission or input. And when I embraced that freedom fully, I got giddy in my choices. I filled my Brooklyn apartment with saturated, rich hues, and I felt strong. I found a vintage ice bucket at the BK flea in bold green faux malachite. At ABC Carpet and Home, I bought a huge teal velvet floor pillow and kantha blankets in deep shades of aqua. I also found that I really loved anything that sparkled, so I hung a big disco ball in the kitchen window. Because why the hell not? I answered to no one, and it was glorious. 

Now, if you are a childless individual, people can tell you about what it’s like to become a parent, and you may nod and smile (and possibly glaze over) while they discuss the sacrifices involved. You may think you get it already, for goodness sake. Yes, it’s hard. Yes, it’s selfless. Yes, it’s as permanent as a tattoo on your face, so you better be sure. I know, I’d heard it all before, too. But the truth is that until it occurs, it is impossible to grasp what happens to a life when a child comes into the picture. I’m not saying this for sympathy—though I am happy to receive a little on a bad day, thanks—but to try to tell you how crazy it is to attempt to hold on to the kind of rigid rules I built while pregnant—let alone the fancy-schmancy, single girl decor I had reveled in—post kid. Not only do children have their own fully developed personalities when they show up, but they will likely force you to confront the most stubborn facets of yours. Finley entered our lives, perfect and innocent, and she filled my meticulously curated nursery with such unexpected and singular life. It was crazy awesome. And as soon as she could use language, do you know what she wanted? Pink.

I still remember her second birthday party vividly. I was part of a small mom group that met weekly for “coffee,” aka: bleary-eyed lamenting and consoling while breast feeding and changing diapers without having to apologize or feel embarrassed. These were good women whom I trusted. It was fun to witness milestones together, and I was happy that they’d known my baby girl from the start and could be at the party with their babes. Each brought gifts, and Finley was excited to open everything once the party was over. David and I sat with her, helping to untie ribbons and remove tape, exhausted from all the celebratory prep and pomp. However, I instantly came to full attention when out of a pink, shiny bag emerged a Disney Princess puzzle. What? I mean, I thought I knew these ladies! Didn’t everyone agree that the culture of princesses teaches young girls that the only route to happiness is through marriage to someone rich whom they barely know? I mean, a) how many princes are there even, and b) what if he’s a creep, and c) are we really saying that marriage equals happiness, and d) what about college, and e) why are they all white and male, and f)…ok, you get what I’m saying. I was HORRIFIED. I actually tried to hide the puzzle as I pushed the last gift toward her as distraction. Guess what? That final package held a large, battery powered, pink puppy that barked and said super annoying phrases over and over. Hooray! What was happening to my worrlllllldddddd???

And so it went. Bit by bit, I had to let go. I finally realized, with much sadness and some real fear, that I would not be the only influence on my child’s life. Damnit. I have, at times reluctantly, embraced princess life. This child of mine loves pink, and when I try to put her into non-frilly, “cool” outfits she says, “Mama, that’s not really my style.” I have given over completely to all the ruffles and bows and flounce. She watches Disney movies, though her favorites are the Frozen films. For them, I am deeply grateful. I often wonder what my life would have been like if the fairytale I heard first had a heroine who does NOT end up being saved by someone else, but a young woman who finds her own worth and stands in the center of her own power. I’m not sure which one of us loved Frozen 2 more. When Elsa’s mother sang, “You are the one you’ve been waiting for,” I may have sobbed. (If you haven’t watched that movie, do it—it’s a fairytale game changer.) I am so happy that there are stories out there now that include healthy messages about what women are and can be. How incredible, too, that a women achieving the Vice Presidency is no fairytale anymore. I don’t know, maybe experiencing those shifts has helped me loosen up. 

Upstairs here in the farmhouse, Finley has the largest room. It has a darling walk-in closet with a half-sized entrance. There are dormers in this house that make for some interesting architectural details. That little closet seemed like an enchanted, secret playroom, so of course it had to be hers—even if it meant our Master bedroom wasn’t so grand. And when it came to her walls? I let her pick the color. Can you believe it? Unlike in my previous life, when my walls were cloaked in someone else’s hues out of spousal submission, the walls of Finley’s Big Girl Room were given freely and with gratitude for her joy as she honed in on the particular shade of blush. We also hung pink curtains, and included multiple rainbows. Most of the items from her east coast nursery remain, but I like how the new additions have given more life to the room. Decorators often talk of using a layered look to make a space seem as if it evolved over time for good reason—it makes a house a home. I started with my own choices, and I see now that before she was born, I was just making my best guesses at who she might be. I was also saying with each item, “This is what I want my mothering to look like; here is the space outside of my body that I am creating to hold you next.” It is called nesting for a reason. The things I picked are beautiful and special, but no thing could ever be as precious as the brilliant light of our girl. I want her to express that spark, and if that means removing the boho, wood-beaded light fixture of her early days to make way for a candy-colored, unicorn rainbow chandelier? You better believe I celebrate that. It reminds me of a girl I found not long ago with a disco ball in her kitchen…

Spaces can bring so much happiness when they truly reflect who you are, and they will inevitably grow and change as you do. I love how Finley’s room turned out, and I fully expect it to continue to lean further and further toward who she is becoming. Every corner of this house challenges me, be it with patience, tolerance, discomfort, or creative problem solving. Her room wasn’t hard logistically, just a bit bittersweet. But more than that, it was joyful. Because she is. And I am—to be her mama. When I walk into her room, I enter the best of us: warm and colorful, past and present, so filled with love.

Oh, my girl, color me lucky.

Before.