corner makeovers + a cautionary tale, part i

It may not fit any clinical definition, but I think I have been suffering from a rare form of postpartum depression for the last few months. I adore the baby and have frequent feelings of joy and well-being with regard to my children and husband, but shortly after the baby's birth our apartment, once my peaceful haven in our busy city life, became a constant source of rancor to me. 

It began the first or second night home from the hospital. Our beautifully-tufted tuxedo sofa, in all its platinum velvet glory, began shedding its buttons. Whenever one sat down there was the possibility that when he or she rose, a button would come along. Within our complaints about our now-weekly sofa repairs, for which we invested in a set of sturdy upholstery needles, Violet  saw opportunity. She became adept at removing the buttons manually. Watching her from my perch on the couch, newborn babe in arms, I saw choking hazards, thirty-six of them. Not only that, but the buttons that remained were brutally uncomfortable, with a tendency to poke one in the backside with every shift in position. Perhaps they always had, we just hadn't spent sufficient time on the sofa to know it. As it was now our primary resting spot, day and night, we were literally developing welts and bruises. Something had to give, and it was going to have to be me and my Old Hollywood upholstery dreams.

During the after-Christmas sales, I found a big, down-filled, linen-slipcovered sofa. A family sofa. We resigned ourselves to it, by which I mean I wiped my tears and found my beloved tuxedo a home with the cool young couple who occasionally babysits for us, and Steve tried to suppress his exultation at finally having a sofa that would be suitable for both slouching and spooning. While we waited the requisite six weeks for delivery, there was another casualty. The living room rug, which had been part of the design calculations when we purchased the sofa, suffered a fatal blow. Violet, keyed up after a long week with a cranky mother and without her nightly wrestling bouts--Daddy was out of town on business--threw a shoe across the living room, where it hit a large dish of takeout sauce and catapulted it into the air. The dish landed face down on the rug, which greedily drank up its contents. I wasn't sure how long it would take for the sauce to become rancid, but it wouldn't be more than a couple of days. There was a brief debate between replacing the rug with an identical jute one, which was durable and design neutral, or getting tufted wool that would be softer underfoot and better for horseplay with the kids. Once again, comfort won the day. I found a yellow and cream Thomas Paul rug with a tree design, which seemed like it would fit with the new scheme.

So there I was with a handsome new sofa and rug, lucky girl. There should have been nothing to complain about. But as I nestled into the couch eight times a day to feed the baby, sleep-deprived and in a hormonally heightened state, I couldn't get comfortable. I felt irked, irrationally, that my visual equilibrium had been disrupted. Everything felt beige and mustard yellow. With the only free parts of me, one hand and two eyes, I began obsessively poring over design magazines and blogs, as well as the daily sales online at One Kings Lane and Gilt. Convinced I had found the solution, a grey Rococo rug from Designers Guild, that would return us to normalcy, I tried to ebay the Thomas Paul in order to be able to afford it. When that didn't work, I became fixated on our "need" for a colorful throw for the sofa, purchasing one at some point that was, when it arrived, a grape color that clashed dramatically with the marigold of the rug. I thought salvation might lie in having a blue and white bowl for flowers on an end table to add a pop of color. We needed a wing chair so that Steve would have the reading corner he was always saying he wanted. The walls felt appallingly empty as they closed in on me. Did they need paint, mirrors, art, demolition? White now felt unfinished and bland, not classic. The chandeliers, which I had preferred unembellished when the living room was platinum, now felt barren. I had crystals in the closet a few feet away, purchased five years ago, but was powerless to attach them with a baby on my lap and a four-year-old crawling all over me. I began looking the other way when I walked through the front hallway, feeling that it was unwelcoming. I would lie awake in the middle of the night debating paint colors and wall decor, and throw pillows. Oh, the throw pillows!

Our apartment no longer felt like a home, our home, homey. That my feelings might be a reaction to our new family configuration, and not that of our living room, occurred to me, but that acknowledgement did nothing to ease the feelings themselves. When a friend who was living in the midst of a gut-renovation that had yet to supply a wall for the bathroom or a ceiling of any kind, sank into an armchair in our living room and, with a sigh, said that it felt so civilized, I insensitively replied that I hated it, before apologizing and nearly bursting into tears. Sample paint squares in various greys, pastels, and hot pink took over the walls in the kitchen and master bedroom. Violet, who loved all this insanity, made "sandwiches" of fabric samples for the tufted ottoman that I thought would restore glamour to our lives. She browsed piles of rejected wallpaper samples and taped the most girlish ones to her own bedroom walls, insisting that they, too, needed redoing. She spent an hour rearranging throw pillows at Lilian August while I looked for a table, and had to be bribed to leave. I worried that I was ruining my child forever, turning her into an implacable aesthete, just like her mother. I read the Gospel of Matthew through the myopic lens of my obsession and took from it that I was creating a whited sepulchre rather than a home. I felt chastised and depressed, but couldn't seem to do anything about it.

And then, the clouds began to part. The baby started sleeping nights and we resumed a regular social calendar. We were going on weekend outings to Brooklyn again and planning trips for the summer. I ordered a large white mirror for the living room and found a gilt one at the antiques fair, and for once they worked. As the mirrors and crystals were hung, enlivening the living room and entry hall, the urge to paint retreated. The baby swing in the corner of the living room swapped places with the rocking chair in Violet's room, and just like that, we had our reading corner. I found brass nesting hooks to organize the perpetual mess of coats, bags, and umbrellas that made it impossible to use the hall bench. The ivory cashmere throw that resided on our previous sofa, purchased in Mongolia by my father-in-law, found its way onto the new one. Violet made me a vase for the living room for Mothers' Day.

As those two small corners of our home took shape and life gradually returned to normal, or the "new normal," as we have come to call it, many of the projects that seemed essential only a couple of months ago fell by the wayside. With the ebb of postpartum hormones and a few full nights of sleep, a new patience emerged, or rather, my former patience returned, one that acknowledges that the projects that truly need doing can wait until we have the time and means to tackle them. In the meantime, a big wide world awaits the four of us outside these walls, and our home will have a well-earned vacation from us for a while. (And I think I will revisit Erich Fromm's anti-materialism treatise To Have or To Be? as part of my summer reading, just in case any embers of imbalance remain.)

Hall, before:

After:

Living room, before:

After: