A Place Of One's Own

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Well, faithful readers, you will be happy for me that the painting in the little studio in Manhattan is almost done. The kitchen and the bathroom have yet to be addressed, but those need a bit more construction, less cosmetic work.
And the place is looking soooo much better. So much better in fact that I am starting to regret not moving in there myself. After all, this was my place when I was a young fashion designer working on 7th Avenue. Before I got married and had two kids.
Now young College Daughter will live there.
Yesterday, while walking around the East Side looking to buy a mattress for the place, I could not help but wishing I could just move back myself. Sometimes, mothering is a damn hard job, especially mothering the moody 15-year old who still lives at home. He can change personas in a flash which is quite exhausting. Like living with Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde. So the idea of having a little retreat of my own became very appealing. Very much so indeed. It was just momentary madness, I assure you. I have no intentions of doing anything like that. Though I saw a friend of mine recently, mother of two grown daughters and a much younger son who could not contain her giggles as she told me with the biggest grin that she was moving into the top floor apartment of her brownstone. She was leaving her husband and son on the bottom parlor floor. She seemed so happy, I could not help but be, well, a bit jealous. I could move to the third floor of my brownstone, except it is already inhabited by my grouchy son.
Before you all get the wrong idea, let me assure you that everything is well here at home in Brooklyn. It sometimes is difficult being the adult, being the mother. Sometimes, just doing something for one's self would be just heavenly. Like having a place of one's own.