Don’t Judge Me By My Coffee Table

By Leigh Thomas

Maybe delirium has taken finally taken over, or perhaps you can relate.

I opened my October issue of Southern Living magazine the other day and burst out laughing. There, staring me in the face, was a feature entitled “How to Style Your Coffee Table.” Really?? Make no mistake, I’m not knocking SL. I’ve been a faithful subscriber for many years and understand I’m not their only target audience.

I laughed because of how irrelevant a “styled” coffee table is to my life right now. I thought, “Style my coffee table? When? Oh, you mean when it isn’t covered with stickers, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle swords, stray raisins, hair barrettes, tea cups and Legos left behind?” Because that’s like, never.

Actually, that’s not entirely accurate. I’m known to be pretty OCD about these things. I can’t rest at night until everything is in its proper place on my kitchen counter, all the mail and school papers have been appropriately sorted and dishes are put away, and I’ve been known to tackle a dusty baseboard on my way to bed. (I sound like a fun girl, huh?) Before my son was born, I honestly believed that we would bring baby home and that he and his one thousand items of baby paraphernalia would stay neatly tucked into his so meticulously organized nursery. I was wrong. Shocking, right? Yeah, it shocked the hell out of me too.

I’ve adjusted, somewhat, and these days people barely notice if I start to twitch as kids run through my house leaving a trail of kid crap behind them. But, like my kitchen counters, I still clean off my coffee table nearly every night during the post-bedtime aftermath.

B will say, “Don’t bother. They’ll just mess it up five minutes after they’re up.” Yep, they will. Hordes of moms, grandmoms, aunts, sisters, whomever, will say, “Oh, just let it go. There will be plenty of time to clean when the kids are grown.” Be that as it may, I just can’t let it go. (Cue Frozen theme music and thank me as you sing it to yourself for the next nine hours.) If repeating this mantra to yourself works for you, power on sister, but it stresses me the hell out. The five minutes it took to put all this crap away gave me an inkling of peace during a time that is rarely peaceful. Just don’t open my closet doors.

Needless to say, I don’t think I’ll be “styling” my coffee table any time soon. Maybe I’ll tackle that in about 15 years when it is graced only by my latest copy of Southern Living and a strong cocktail.

Leigh Thomas — Columbia-area wife, mom and communications professional. Also a runner and lover of red wine, M&Ms and South Carolina Gamecocks. Visit her blog at literalleigh.blogspot.com.