Redesigning my World

It sounds dramatic, I know, but this post is really about furniture.

Not a shopping trip to IKEA… though maybe someday.

It’s about rediscovering a part of myself that quietly disappeared for nearly five years: reimagining, repurposing, and redesigning old furniture.

When I lived alone, I did it all the time. It was how I spent summer breaks before having children to entertain. Somewhere between diapers, bedtime routines, work, and simply surviving, that part of me slipped into the background.

Now that my boys are a little older, I decided it was time.

I was sitting in my living room looking at the battered Walmart cube shelf holding my boys’ toys. It had even survived a flooded basement after a pipe burst. It was still usable… structurally questionable, but usable.

I looked at it and thought, I could do something with that.

So I recruited my five-year-old.

We talked about colors, even though I already knew what I wanted to do. He enthusiastically suggested rainbow. I told him maybe on the next project.

We sanded and primed during his little brother’s naps. I found myself amazed by the care he took. He carefully painted the corners, climbed into the cubes to make sure every surface was covered, and took the job as seriously as any professional.

One afternoon he looked up at my cabinet full of spray paint and asked,

“Mommy… are you an artist or something?”

I laughed.

“I guess… sometimes.”

Without missing a beat he replied,

“Not me. I’m always an artist.”

That sentence followed me through the rest of the project.

Through the painting, wallpapering, and building the wood top.

Through the moments when nails poked through the impossibly thin Walmart shelving and screws split cheap particle board.

Through the urge to make everything perfect, and the slow realization that imperfections didn’t make it less beautiful. They proved someone had made it.

When I finished, I started scrolling through old photos trying to remember who she was.

Who I was.

I found pictures of furniture I’d transformed, signs I’d made, crafts I’d created, and even my published story in Chicken Soup for the Soul.

I looked at those photos and thought,

She’s an artist.

Then I caught myself.

No.

She’s always an artist.

She was there during the years when creativity looked like bedtime stories instead of paintbrushes.

She was there when creating meant building childhood instead of bookshelves.

She was there all along.

Now I get to watch another little artist grow beside me.

Luca has started walking through the house saying things like, “Mommy, you know what would make this room better?” or “You know what this wall needs?”

And every time he says it, I smile.

Because maybe this project was never really about saving an old bookshelf.

Maybe it was about showing both of us that creativity isn’t something you lose.

Sometimes it just waits patiently for you to pick up the paintbrush again.