A Room of One's Own

I had been planning to write on this topic for a while. Then a couple days ago, my friend Emily posted "A Grown-Up Bed...for Grown-Ups" on her Mothers of Brothers blog (and Emily, you owe me for all this free publicity). Emily was very excited for her new bedroom furniture and asked us all to share about the size of our husbands, er, I mean our beds, the quality of our husbands mattresses, pillow claims, etc. Well, this is one time when I am more advanced than Emily, for I am past thinking that new bedroom furniture is 'da bomb. No, I am to the point of wanting my own room.

Between the dog snoring, Rob snoring, the dog's piggishness in sucking up space, the likelihood of a kid showing up in the middle of the night, and the frequent anxiety attacks I've been experiencing at bedtime, I've found it's just easier to move to another room. I always start out with Rob, but at least half the time I end up somewhere else. And while Rob makes a small effort to get me to stay, I think in reality we're both fine with this sleeping arrangement.

But here's the thing. A separate place to sleep isn't all I'm after. What I desire most is a whole room of my own. Virginia Woolf, author of A Room of One's Own, was looking for a quiet place where she could be in touch with her creative side. She wanted to write fiction and poetry (but let's face it, if she lived today she'd be looking for a secluded spot to work on her blog and update her Facebook status.). I'm not so much interested in being alone so I can be creative, I'm interested in being alone because I have children (which Ms. Woolfe did not).

I want a room of my own where there will be no stepping over toys, backpacks, shoes, and laundry. There will be no pile of papers that my husband will "get to one of these days." There will be no dirty dishes with mystery crumbs. There will be no dog hair to stick to my clothes and no dust bunnies to make me sneeze. My room will feature no mysterious odors. No children's programming on television.

My room will be bright and sunny. It will have dozens, maybe hundreds of books. It will have a stack of chick flicks for those times when one needs a good cry or mind-numbing escape. There will be a small refrigerator with bottles of wine and a gallon of cold milk to go with the freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. There will be comfy chairs, the perfect couch, super soft blankets, and singer-songwriter music playing in the background. I'm feeling more relaxed now, just thinking about it.

In theory, this room could exist in ones home, but unless your children are much better listeners than mine, it would never work out. They just don't grasp the idea that not everything is theirs. I could place a lock on the door, but they would seek me out. They would knock. They would want things. I would be able to hear them. This would defeat part of the purpose of having my own space.

No, I think what I really need is my own apartment. I wouldn't move out of the house I share with Rob and the kids, I'd just use the apartment for several days a month when I need to escape to avoid causing anyone bodily harm (you could probably chart those days pretty accurately). And I bet I could get a group of women to chip in and share the rent on this place. Heck, I can't be the first woman to think of this. There must be a group somewhere who already have a nice arrangement that we could consult with about the logistics and the ground rules.

I'm willing to do the research if you're with me. Any takers?

I leave you with this thought from Virginia W:

"I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in."