What would it take?

Downstairs in our basement is a room. Not very large, not very fancy, but yet a very particular room. This room was much longed for, long sought after, carefully planned, and meticulously organized. Something of a dream that gradually became realized, the room I speak of is my office. Destined to be a haven of quiet reprieve, it is well stocked with supplies and materials of every type to inspire creativity and promote personal development. It is MY space, MY stuff, to be used in MY alone-time. So why are my children always in it?

There sits the beautiful sewing machine, a pinnacle of machinery in a the seam-stressing world, so I'm told. I don't actually know how to use it and my intentions to learn continue to hover faintly in the distance like a mirage in the desert. And there stands the large screen monitor, perfect for designing photo pages and laying out albums, yet there is no designing being done, no albums to speak of. The screen sits blank, empty and wistful under a fine layer of dust. The carefully stacked shelves of paper organized by color are in a jumble. The drawers once filled with scissors, stencils, and crafting tools sit empty while the floor plays host to their former contents. My cloud-borne castle of creativity has been reduced to a shanty of disarray. What would it take to rebuild it? Time, energy, diligence . . .

I do attempt on occasion to sequester myself in that room. Quietly tiptoeing down the stairs, quickly darting in, softly latching the door, I ignore the calls of "MOM??" drifting down the hallway and busy myself in some pursuit, knowing my efforts will be halted before I complete my objective but stubbornly I persist. Inevitably they find me and suddenly my space is no longer a secluded hideaway of introspection but an open forum for little fingers to ravage like a swarm of ants on a picnic lunch. The paper comes off the shelves and is meticulously shredded with a paper cutter. The buttons and beads are spilled so they can be "counted" and strung. Skeins of yarn are unwound to construct "spider webs." Yards of fabric are unfolded and draped to mimic couture gowns. Stickers are stuck on everything and always, ALWAYS, someone (who shall remain nameless but has short, curly blonde hair and is under three feet tall), insists on sitting in my lap thereby blocking the keyboard and inhibiting my efficacy with the mouse. Then she repeatedly asks,"Can I watch a movie of me on your computer mom?" until I am so undeniably distracted that I consent with resignation. "Cottages" are constructed beneath the worktables and "animal hospitals" occupy the corners. I once found a stuffed rabbit wearing a baby sweater and a nearly empty bag of marshmallows in the closet. Perhaps my realized dream of a room of my own was in reality, too good to be true. For my children it has evolved into a type of playground while for me it has descended to a storage room. What would it take to reclaim this space? A baby-sitter for an indefinite amount of time, an extra dose of over-the-counter energy boosting painkillers, an unpredictable alignment of the universe . . .

When it comes to my so-called office, I don't know how to establish an inviolable sense of forbidden territory in my children. There is no deep and abiding respect for boundaries or recognition of ownership. What would it take to teach them to stay out, leave things alone, don't touch, and don't interrupt? Threats, bribes, gruff reproach . . .

With summer fast approaching I'm considering an attempt at a more open mind and less closed doors, a space with figuratively softer edges and rounded corners. Maybe I should demolish my concept of a den of isolation and reconstruct a more harmonious center of productivity. While I am absolutely a proponent of personal space and privacy I cannot deny that my previous failure at achieving any has lead me to suppose that devising a treaty rather than issuing a decree may actually serve me better, both in my pursuit of personal development and in my relationship with my children. What would it take to create a shared space where they are welcomed in and invited to participate within the bounds of certain limitations? Patience, compromise, a soft answer, more patience . . .

It is MY space. It is MY stuff. But they are MY children, and they are only little for a little while. During that while my office will just have to be an area of give and take.