When my daughter left for college, back in 2005, we packed her off with accoutrements. I cared that she lived in a space with comfort, which required a bedside lamp, a table, and rosy bed linens. I also gave her the rug my mother bought me in 1979 – Chinese wool, in desert-ish tones.
When my son left, in turn, I think he took only the blue and white striped duvet of his boyhood. Several perfectly good reasons. First, at 19, his home decor style was well-described as Clothes Make The Best Carpet, Don’t They? Second, he was sharing a very small room with a very large roommate. If one of them stood up, the other had to step aside. And finally, maybe, by this time we had divorced, and the orchestral symphony of care had quieted. Diminuendo.
So when he moved to Brooklyn I was ready. I sent him money to buy furniture, urged him to get a real bed in place of a mattress on the floor, chatted in text messages about this desk and that table. Of course, he ignored much of what I said. All is right with the world.
But I took the rug moment firmly in hand, via a Living Social deal. I bought it for him, under the condition that he share the purchase process with me. Ha! Mothers learn so many tricks over the years. He and I exchanged scads of emails, with links to our favorites. We reviewed this rug and that rug, some floral, some kilim, mostly in tones of blue. However, in the end, he settled on the one you see above.
As it turns out, I realize, it’s not unlike the one I gave his sister, given me in turn by my mother 35 years ago. At least five days out of every seven I make a wish that my children lived close by. Don’t worry punkins, I’m not saying that you need to come home right now. It’s just that everything about you is dear to me.
I wish all reading here a wonderful weekend.
Image: Rugs USA