Space for Sweaters?

I miss my childhood closet.

Each time I’m visiting my parents, generally once a week, I climb the stairs of the 1970’s colonial and peer enviously into the room they still call “Angela’s room”.

Over the years, gold shag carpeting and yellow wallpaper gave way to delicate blue and white paper and blue plush carpeting, then finally a cream Berber and spring green walls.  The feminine, off-white furniture has been pushed around in every possible layout.

The closet remains unchanged.

Ryan and I don’t live in a 1970’s colonial.

People generally sigh wistfully when they hear our house was built in the 1920’s.

“Old houses have so much character,” they say, looking around at the built-in bookcases and coved ceilings.

I generally sigh in frustration as the seasons change, and I try to rearrange our closets.

Our house has two relatively large linen closets, but our master bedroom has two miniscule closets, built into the part of the room where the ceiling slopes, rendering much of the already cramped space unusable. 

When we moved into the house, and Ryan had time for projects other than tucking Abbey into bed for the third time each night, he carefully measured and engineered a series of shelves in our closets, trying to maximize the space.

It was a valiant effort, and it generally works for him.  Also, he has generously allowed me the entire dresser for my things.

I still struggle.

Shoes in boxes, so they can stack?  Out of boxes, so I can see them easily and cram my size sixes into the corners?

Bags in the hall closet or my closet?  Accessories on shelves or in boxes on shelves?

 

Clothes hung by color or clothing weight or length?

Every configuration seems wrong.

I try not to think of my childhood closet, empty and open, at my parents’ house.

Innocently, I grew up taking my walk-in closet for granted.  Graced with clothing bars and shelves and oodles of floor space; I never filled it, even as a teenager.  I would laze on the floor, reading books, writing in my journal, whispering into my pink, plastic phone.  My closet was a little cave, carpeted and safe.

My current closet is a little cave as well, cramped and dark, littered with mismatched shoes and belts that Abbey pulls on and off with interest, abandoning them and moving along to eye my jewelry box.

In the 1920’s, I guess people weren’t concerned with whether they had room to add a pair of jewel tone heels to their fall shoe collection.

My old house might have character, but I miss my childhood closet.

prompt:

This week’s prompt is to use this image for your inspiration and begin your post with those words…”I miss my childhood…”

The image is a lined sheet of paper, the writing in a child's handwriting, and I originally had a different concept for this week's piece.

Then it got cold, and I tried to find something warm to wear.