from the style files

Recently I was listening to a conversation between two female colleagues who were discussing the difference between their styles and the taste of their significant others. Both childless, they agreed on the merits of a good throw pillow and bemoaned the fact that they had to slipcover good furniture because of pets. But both clearly had pretty stylish-sounding condos.

One of them turned to me and smiled.

"So, who decorates your house?" she asked.

"Well," I said, thinking hard. "No one."

A mishmash of handed-down antiques and garage sale furniture, sun-faded curtains and framed kid art, our home reminds me of a cross between Trainspotting and the Golden Girls. Okay, so it's not that bad, but it's so completely not my style and, yet, I fear it has become my style.

This weekend as I looked around, however, it occurred to me that the real answer to the question, "Who decorates your house?" is, "My children."

Maybe someday I will have the time, energy and money to care again. To find my style and take back my home. In the meantime, I'm going to try to celebrate the fact that my home is odd, eclectic and creative, and that thankfully blankets are plentiful and transparent tape is cheap.

Liam's "dog's" sleeping quarters, in the corner of our dining room.

The Iron Man obsession plastered across the wall leading up the stairs.

Where every stuffed animal in the house finds shelter, and mom finds the pillows from her bed.