At some point all the furniture in my home became short. Gone are the tall bar stools, the giant couches, tables of practical height. All these tools to help one tower above the domain, survey the land we call home, have been replaced with shin high novelty chairs.
A cartoon bear face now greets visitors. The favored dining arrangement for the oldest child is a dinosaur patterned chair straight from the era Jurassic Park ruled pop culture and a stool with its seat removed. I would be less upset if the animals on the pattern at least existed at the same time as each other.
The diminutive rocking chair is doing wonders for the firstborn’s JFK impression. I wander the house feeling like Andre the Giant in a land of Smurfs, so it is not all that bad.
Entering a darkened room is out of the question though. When furniture can basically “sweep the leg”, that means toppeling over it is far more likely than just falling down. There are too many Legos, Hot Wheels and bouncy balls in this house to justify the risk of entering a dark room.
I cannot help but wonder when the furniture of my home will one day be of consequence again. Any chair that can be lifted one handed is ill suited for human use. The couches are so low to the ground that sitting on them comes as a surprise sometimes; walking along and then suddenly a couch is there. It is an odd sensation. It is the tables in the house that are the most odd. Perfectly suited for small humans to use as play or eating areas, they feel like a trap from Home Alone when one stubs a toe against the tiny little legs. I rarely angrily shout, “Kevin” when that happens. I wish stubbed toes could be reacted to in such a polite manner.
For now the tiny furniture fills our house. It makes the firstborn happy, the baby is learning how to climb it already and my wife and I are living in an oddly proportioned doll house. Parenting.