|Bing's room is *almost* complete!|
The unsung hero of any room.
Although the walls get all the glory and praise, the floor simply goes about it's work.
Day in, day out.
Not swayed by the adornment often lavished on the walls.
Not envious of the picturesque window panes over looking fields of flowers.
Content to catch the lint, dust and dirt from the sweaty icky feet upon which master it.
Nay, no feet master the floor.
The floor upholds the feet and give them a stable place to play, laugh, run and love.
The floor noble and strong.
Naked it lays in the open, no bright colours to mask any imperfections from years of serving quietly.
Forgotten by years of renovations.
While wall colours change, windows reframed, the floor remains.
But one day, the floor will look back over his life and feel contented that it did it's job with the utmost of dignity.
It matters not if the precious and beloved baby crawling across it ever stops,
picks up his wet soggy Cherios,
and with a nod of appreciation graces the floor with an affectionate smile of understanding as if to say,
Thank you for being strong enough that when my Dad held me in his arms and walked me for hours so I could sleep when I was too tired to be alone that you were there.
Thank you for being forgiving enough that when I was rough and played maybe a little to hard, you never rebuffed me, you never packed up your 1/4" Spruce sub floor and sulked in the corner leaving me to play on the bare frame of the house.
Thank you that when I took advantage of you, you never held it against me.
Thank you that when I ignored you, you always were there for me.
Thank you that when I compared you against floors I have known, that you simply smiled up at me and said, 'yes, but I am yours'.
So what do floors and parents of (any) children have in common?
I'm just complaining because for the last week or so, I've been sleeping on one!
Bings room is done(ish) and has been moved into his own room, with his own bed.
Only he hates to be alone! He wakes up SCREAMING and CRYING.
So I have to sleep in his room with him.
Except that I can't fit in his tiny little toddler bed.
|No way the Yeti is fitting in there!|
So I sleep on the floor.
On a Yoga mat.
With my arm craned awkwardly up and behind me desperately trying to hold onto his tiny hand while he sobs himself to sleep.
So !@$%$ you floor! You are hard and my back hurts! BAH.
Were you expecting something deeper and more insightful?