parkour decor

Decorating my house is not something I excel at. We’ve been living in our current home for over three years, and there are still white walls and awkward spaces that need “something.” I would love to have my house designed like the homes you see on HGTV, but I just don’t typically spend the time or money to make that happen. There’s so much other stuff to do and I hate shopping. I do go in spurts though, focusing on one piece of my house and trying my best to make it look less asylum, more homey.

When we first moved in, I actually tried to make our living room look cozy. It’s connected to the kitchen, so we spend most of our time in that space. I had never owned end tables or lamps in our old house, so that became my first mission. After endless scrutiny over height, color, and “aesthetic,” multiple consults with my design-guru friend via text, 18 trips to HomeGoods, and at least 15 curse words, I finally settled on two off-white ceramic lamps that matched the half-assed “cottage beach” vibe I had going on.

Ceramic lamps. Near my couch. I should’ve known better.

When I placed them on the end tables, I knew I was tempting fate. Invoking Murphy’s Law. My house is not the place for breakable objects. But somehow, the twin lamps survived for a year. Adorning the room with light. Adding beach chic ambiance to our living room design. Safe from ball bouncing, tickle fights, couch jump fests, and crazy ass dog zoomies.

Until one day, Scarlett broke the first one. Neither of us remembers how. (Possibly trauma-induced memory loss.) A blanket may have been involved.

The symmetry of the room was shattered, along with the lamp. Begrudgingly, I moved the now empty end table out. The room vibe looked a little off, but whatever. My house isn’t exactly Joanna Gaines’ doppelgänger anyway. One lamp would suffice.

Until this week, when the second one joined its sister in the trash.

Evie was running on end-of-day-ready-to-crash-red dye 40 energy. She was standing on the couch and said, “hey Mom! Look! I’m Spider-Man!”  And she proceeded to bounce and parkour across the living room couch shooting invisible webs out of her hands. At the end of her stunt she somehow lost balance, fell over the back of the couch, face-planted on the floor. She hit the ground hard. On her way down to meet the laminate floor, she clipped the lamp with her foot. I watched it all in slow motion. Like a movie.

Her fall.

The $49 crème colored ceramic lamp with raised crosshatch patterns tipping backwards off the end table.

My internal monologue as it made its descent to the floor, “Oh no. There it goes. Maybe it won’t break. Laminate floors aren’t that……”

*shatters into 482 pieces*

With time moving that slowly, had I been Spider-Man, I could have likely saved it with my webby tendrils. But as it were, I am not a spider nor a man.

Evie was really upset. Both because her knee hurt and because she broke the lamp. She apologized multiple times, saying she felt bad for me, and asking if I was mad. I don’t know why she was so concerned with the lamp. Normally I don’t yell when things break. I don’t get attached to stuff. Like a good parent, the first thing I asked her was if she was okay. I wanted to make sure she wasn’t cut and that her knee was all right. I didn’t even mention the lamp at all at first. Maybe she sensed what was going on inside of me at that moment.

I wasn’t mad and I told her this. I tried to formulate my emotion into words for her and myself. I was thinking about all those damn trips to the store a year ago to try and find the right set of lamps. The fact that now I will probably have to do that allllll over again.

I was frustrated – because I really liked that lamp and because I don’t want to make the effort to go find two more. I can’t be mad at her for this. Let’s be honest, it’s my fault I let my kids do this stuff. Of course, if I am going to allow my living room to double as a gymnasium – shit’s gonna get broken.

Vince isn’t a fan of this type of activity occurring in our household. We actually joke (ok maybe 78% serious) that he needs his own little “me shed” in our back yard – a He-man Woman Haters Club where he can keep all his crap so that us girls won’t mess it up. He likes his stuff to stay nice and although I constantly make fun of him for it – I do understand his POV.

However, I am of the mindset that I want my kids to feel comfortable in their house. I don’t want it to feel like a museum. I want them to feel like they can be themselves and play. I don’t want them to worry or get PTSD when something breaks. Stuff is stuff. Things will break, melt, get drawn on with permanent marker, scratched, dented, and more. I don’t want my house to be filled with items my kids can’t touch or rooms that they can’t play and explore in. I want my house to be filled with laughter, comfort, and memories.

So, for now, the living room is darker at night. Let’s just call it mood lighting. Eventually I’ll get another lamp – but this time, maybe not a breakable one because in my house, the death rate for those is 100%.