My Kitchen Sink, Myself.

The endless, futile quest for homemaking perfection Read more

dorothy robinson kitchen sink

This post comes courtesy of Wee friend and writer Dorothy Robinson, who is mom to 4-year-old Sam and 1-year-old Kit. You can — and should! — catch more of Dorothy on her (hilarious) blog, The Tankini Files.

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All I wanted from life in my 20s was fame, fortune and gigantic professional success.

In my 30s, all I want from life is a farmhouse sink.

Every time I wash dishes (which is aaaaallllllllll tttthhhheeeeee ttttttiiimmmmeeeee), I sigh and wonder what I did wrong in life to have such an old, non-fancy sink that only holds, like, two mugs and a plate before it’s too crowded to actually wash any dishes.

WHY GOD, WHYYYYY?

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I even feel this way after I bought a fancy dishwasher two years ago with three rows (three! So swag. I know now what the Real Housewives must feel like, sans the daddy issues).

It’s so stupid. I hate it. My sink … and my thinking about my sink. Why must farmhouse sinks enchant me so?

I’ve become so much more of a materialist since I moved to the ‘burbs. Before, in the halcyon days of my city-dwelling youth, I never cared about the depth of my sink because that would have been … weird. But now that I’m 37 with two kids, I really, really care about how deep my sink is.

WHY ISN’T IT DEEPER? WWWWHHHYYYY?

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The amount of shit out there you are supposed to do to your house seems endless to me. And, I must say, I resent how this has taken over my brain and spare time. I hate that my brain is now so concerned with what Our Medicine Cabinet Says About Us  than I do about reading, writing or other, small artistic pursuits I used to take part in.

I’m in a grey area: I’m not bohemian enough to totally not give a fuck but I’m still bougie enough where I care about what my cabinet finishes say to the world.  And right now, I’m worried they scream, “Poor person with bad taste!” When, in reality, I’m a semi-poor person with just okay taste.

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Here’s the thing. I could get a farmhouse sink. We are not destitute. But I find the house decor stuff — and the implementation of said stuff — to be so stressful. I get great anxiety when I think about picking out tiles and paint colors and cabinets and whatever it is I’m supposed to do to have a nice house.

Apparently, due to current thinking on the subject, my house is to be filled with things I love. But what if I just don’t love things?  Like, I’m supposed to love my side table on my bed? Love it?  Really? I didn’t even know I was supposed to think about it.

I guess I don’t feel like I’m being interesting if I spend all my time thinking about what to spend money on. It’s not my talent. Being able to navigate Pinterest, charging my credit card and then hiring a handyman isn’t a skill. It’s me … spending money. That’s supposed to impress the world?

But I guess it does! Because here I am, feeling anxious about it and recognizing I’m not spending enough to keep up with the Joneses and / or make my other friends jealous. I just want them to feel the envy I feel when I gaze upon their farmhouse sink. Is that too much to ask, world?

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This morning, it was dark in my room and we have no recessed lighting because, I guess, we’re actually feral animals who just wear grown-up adult clothing during the day to trick the world into thinking that we’re adults. A while ago, I broached the subject with my husband about getting some lights installed in the ceiling upstairs in the bedrooms and he was like, “Why? We have lamps.”

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Which is TRUE STATEMENT.  Lamps = light. But  today I couldn’t find the one pair of black pants I wanted to wear out of the other 4 pairs of black pants I own and I almost started crying at how terrible my life is because I didn’t spend money on recessed lighting or that  we’re not fancy enough to have bought a home with recessed lights or a house with a farmhouse sink. And then I became sad I was even ruing my big, beautiful, lucky life.

Because, have you seen my children? They really are incredible. Look at them.

sam and kit

They are my farmhouse sink, y’all — except they aren’t, you know, a kitchen appliance you can buy at Ikea or, if you’re feeling especially rich, Rohl (I’ve done my research). They take up all of my money, spare time, and energy. Sometimes I feel so helpless, like I can’t do anything (I wrote an essay here about how hard it was for me to make a cup of coffee, just so you know the baseline of what I’m working with). But I have to do a reality check most days and remind myself the reason why I can’t take on home improvement projects is that I already have two really big projects I’m currently working on — and their names are Sam and Kit. And they are phenomenal. (Like, if Restoration Hardware sold children, they would sell my children. Primo, y’all.)

But once they get older, watch out. I’m coming for you, farmhouse sink. And I’m going to put so many (so many!) dirty dishes in you, you won’t even know what hit you.

 

Dorothy RobinsonAbout our author: When Dorothy Robinson was young and single, she lived in Philadelphia where she was a writer and editor. She is now in Maplewood, NJ, married, and works in global communications. It happens. You can follow her on Twitter @dorothyrobinson or visit her blog, The Tankini Files.