Didn't I Feed You Yesterday__ A Mother's Guide to Sanity in Stilettos - Laura Bennett [50]
The house is a converted barn in the Berkshires of Massachusetts; we call it Dairy Air. Next door is a dairy farm, and if the wind is blowing in the right direction, our entire property smells like derrière. The cows are lined up in large open-air sheds, standing in their own filth and producing enough methane to power a third-world country or at least provide the farmer with cable television. We thought it would be good for the children to be near real nature; maybe we could even buy milk from the neighbors. Instead, Peik has developed a Tourettian habit of emerging from the car half asleep on Friday nights muttering “This place smells like ass.”
Living in a converted barn sounds very romantic. Barns can be quite beautiful, with their simply pegged beams and dramatic, soaring, cathedral-like spaces. But our barn is more a glorified shed, not a majestic stone-foundation classic nestled on a wealthy old gentleman farmer’s estate. Even more sadly, our structure was “converted” in the 1960s, when dropped ceilings and wood paneling were all the rage. There are no theatrical spaces with exposed historic woodwork overhead. It’s all very practical, and no doubt easier to heat, but it won’t be appearing in any design magazines. We have a dizzying amount of mod wallpaper and samples of every faux-finish painting technique that has been in fashion since 1970—marbleizing, sponging, decoupage; you name it, you can find it in this house. In a further attempt to obliterate any of the barn’s original qualities, a previous owner attached a covered colonial entry smack in the middle of the barn’s exterior. The minute we signed the closing papers, I attached the faux-authentic structure to a truck and pulled the whole thing off, much to the horror of my visiting parents. The truth is, the beautiful barn structure is there, it’s just buried under Sheetrock walls, linoleum, and shag carpet. A real estate listing would use the phrase “hidden potential.” Even with two architectural degrees between us, like the shoemakers, Peter and I have never attempted to give our children a better place to put their feet. We no longer have the energy or the resources to do anything about this mess. Besides, why put your money into something that five boys are going to destroy?
The basement floods on a regular basis, the roof has a series of suspicious peaks and valleys, the chimney is crumbling, and the paint is peeling. If you touch a window, a pane of glass is likely to fall out; duct tape is the repair tool of choice. When we arrive on the weekends, the mice look at us like “What the hell are you doing here?” and slowly saunter off under the furniture with exasperated expressions. Having had the entire place to themselves all week, they see no need to vacate for our sakes. I think “unbelievable rodent activity” is how the Orkin man described it. The house is in such disrepair it has a white-trash quality. We even boast the requisite broken-down vehicles. The only difference is that instead of old beat-up Chevys and Fords, we have broken-down Land Rovers and Porsches, complete with cinder-block pedestals.
Our yard is filled with more plastic fantastic than a Toys “Я” Us. We have every garage sale item Little Tikes ever made. You know the ones: the turtle sandbox, the log cabin playhouse, the slide, the orange and yellow car; they’re all there, acting as a neon welcome sign to passing children. There are armies of bikes in every size and state of disrepair. All varieties of sporting equipment litter the lawn. As a testament to the overabundance of balls in my life, every possible type litters the yard. I do not recall which one of the boys became a bocce enthusiast, or what prompted us to install a tetherball pole, or the last time anyone played horseshoes, but should you want to engage in any of those games, or countless others,