Not intentionally looking for a chair, I found one. Or it found me.
It was double wide for two-three people to sit comfortably. It was dark purple. It was soft. I wanted it to be my reading chair for me and my two youngest daughters.
I purchased the chair, brought it home, and cherished the future moments of reading with my little girls.
It's still a reading chair, but it has become the singular reading chair. I often think about the little ones that sometimes sit next to me. I think of the little ones long ago, that are no longer the little ones.
It's important to me for mothers to have chairs, or couches, or benches to read with their little ones.
When I noticed Bea's rocking chair had a rip in the cushion and a map-sized stain on her ottoman, it was the perfect opportunity for a birthday present. The rocker was twenty years old and had served her five brothers and sisters. As the last child, as the recipient of hand-me-downs-always, she deserved a rocker with beautiful cushions, distinctly her style.
But two years have passed and we still don't have cushions.
I imagined a fabric with little owls. Bea looks like a little owl.
Her traditional and conservative-furniture mother nixed the owls. She wanted a cream or light colored gray. We measured the cushions and shopped on Etsy, but we never found the right replacement. This fall, we headed to an upholstery shop. Bea and I looked through books of fabrics until she settled on a favorite covering. It was a light brown teddy bear fur. The same fabric on a teddy bear. I thought it was adorable and that we'd finally have a new reading chair.
But fate wouldn't have it. The upholstery shop said it would take three months to finish and the cost of reupholstery was the same as a new chair.
Project stalled.
So we went shopping. I was optimistic. We visited three stores. Bea's mom is picky.
She wanted to think about it.
I came home, looked online and sent Bea's mom a link for a pink, fabric covered swivel rocker. A minimal response.
I've covered all the angles for a new chair. Still we wait.
Perhaps it is the journey that does matter.
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