46 / matters magazine / fall 2017 finalmatters My Kitchen Sink, Myself The endless, futile quest for homemaking perfection BY DOROTHY ROBINSON Kit and Sam A ll I wanted from life in my 20s was fame, fortune and gigantic professional success. In my 30s, all I want from life is a farmhouse sink. Every time I wash dishes (which is all the time), I sigh and wonder what I did wrong in life to have such an old, non-fancy sink that only holds something like two mugs and a plate before it’s too crowded to actually wash any dishes. It’s so stupid. I hate it. My sink…and my thinking about my sink. Why must farmhouse sinks enchant me so? I’ve become so much more of a materialist since I moved to the burbs. Before, in the halcyon days of my city-dwelling youth, I never cared about the depth of my sink because that would have been weird. But now that I’m 37 with two kids, I really, really care about how deep my sink is. The amount of stuff out there you are supposed to do to your house seems endless to me. And, I must say, I resent how this has taken over my brain and spare time. I hate that my brain is now more concerned with what Our Kitchen Cabinets Say About Us than it is with reading, writing or other small artistic pursuits I used to take part in. I’m in a grey area: I’m not bohemian enough to totally not care but I’m still bourgeois enough where I care about what my cabinet finishes say to the world. And right now, I’m worried they scream, “Poor person with bad taste!” When, in reality, I’m a semi-poor person with just okay taste. Here’s the thing. I could get a farmhouse sink. We are not destitute. But I find the house decor stuff – and the implementation of said stuff – to be sooo stressful. I get great anxiety when I think about picking out tiles and paint colors and cabinets and whatever it is I’m supposed to do to have a nice house. Apparently, due to current thinking on the subject, my house is to be filled with things I love. But what if I just don’t love things? I’m supposed to love my side table on my bed? Love it? Really? I didn’t even know I was supposed to think about it. I guess I don’t feel I’m being interesting if I spend all my time thinking about what to spend money on. It’s not my talent. Being able to navigate Pinterest, charging my credit card and then hiring a handyman isn’t a skill. It’s just me, spending money. That’s supposed to impress the world? But I guess it does! Because here I am, feeling anxious about it and recogniz- ing I’m not spending enough to keep up with the Joneses and/or make my other friends jealous. I just want them to feel the envy I feel when I gaze upon their farmhouse sink. Is that too much to ask, world? This morning, as I was washing the dishes still piled up from last night’s dinner, I caught myself thinking again we’re not fancy enough to have bought a home with a farmhouse sink. And then I became sad I was even ruing my big, beautiful, lucky life. Because, have you seen my children? They really are incredible. Look at them. They are my farmhouse sink, people – except the kids aren’t, you know, a kitchen appliance you can buy at Ikea or, if you’re feeling especially rich, Rohl (I’ve done my research). They take up all of my money, spare time, and energy. Sometimes I feel so helpless, like I can’t do anything. But I have to do a reality check most days and remind myself the reason why I can’t take on home im- provement projects is that I already have two really big projects I’m currently working on, and their names are Sam and Kit. And they are phenomenal. (If Restoration Hardware sold children, they would sell my children.) But once they get older, watch out. I’m coming for you, farmhouse sink. And I’m going to put so many dirty dishes in you, you won’t even know what hit you. Dorothy Robinson lives in Maplewood and works in global communications. Read more of her writing at TheTankiniFiles.com. n