I have had a desk for as long as I can remember.  There was one that went along with my mother’s childhood bedroom set, which became mine.  I remember the bright blue desk blotter that sat on top of it—matching the blue embroidery on the bed’s coverlet.  I remember the hours tracing the gold painted patterns in the desk instead of concentrating on schoolwork.  My desk was organized in those days—perhaps that was why I struggled so with high school algebra, a cluttered desk lending itself more to genius?  (At least doing my schoolwork at my own desk was a vast improvement from trying to concentrate on history at the kitchen table with my little brother!)

When Merritt and I married and moved into our little pink house, we brought his desk with us.  Hand-made by a childhood neighbor, Merritt’s oak desk was sturdy—and had a drawer filled with letters and pictures from me!  Another drawer was my husband’s filing system for his bank statements—all still in their envelopes.  He was glad to have me take over the finances and the organization of the filing in our home (and oh how organized I was back then!).  The mail from me went into a shoebox.  And I pitched all those bank statement envelopes—after filing the bank statements in chronological order in our file boxes, of course.  I organized the bank of drawers in the desk, but the top drawer over the knee hole remained Merritt’s: filled with receipts from his tractor and car projects, as well as a few Hallmark bags I’m not supposed to know are there, filled with cards for him to give me when the occasion arises.

Then, one day, a third person joined us in the little pink house.  A person who had many, many diapers in need of changing.  Suddenly, the desk became the changing table.  Bookwork happened at the kitchen table, writing on my lap on the couch.  The once-organized bank of drawers was filled with baby socks and clothes.  And my filing boxes were stashed in the knee hole under the desk, usually with a large “to file” stack on top, smashing the plastic file tabs.

There was a brief interim wherein one little person was potty trained and Mommy had a desk again.  She was just rarely home to use it or organize it.  Oh the dust it accumulated while she was at work!  And then, lo and behold, another little person was to join the family.  And when she came much earlier than expected, the desk wasn’t even cleared off in readiness for her.  Her aunt and grandma were kind enough to clear away the clutter and dust in order to make room for the changing pad and diapers.  And those file boxes were emptied into the new-to-us filing cabinet in the shed, because those file boxes became the “dresser” for all the new little clothes this new little person needed (I wasn’t giving up the bank of desk drawers this time)!

But last Thursday, a very special item was delivered to the little pink house.  An antique Mission style dresser, freshly oiled, with all the drawers working smoothly thanks to a few loving touches—a Christmas gift from Uncle Bill which I only then learned about.  A dresser, yes, but better yet, a changing table! I could hardly wait for its new coat of oil to be thoroughly dry before I started filling it.

As of Friday morning, I have a desk again.  And no matter how many more little people fill this house, I will still have a desk: because now there is a dresser and changing table specially designated for the little people of the little pink house!

But it’s not just a desk I have.  It’s a place for my antique postage scale.  A place for Merritt’s desk lamp.  A place for the wooden crayon box that Merritt found long ago.  A place for the mug with the picture of my little brother and I on it that our Great Grandma Edith got for us (back in the day when having your picture on a mug was a very rare thing!).  A place for my purse to land.  A place for my laptop to belong.  A place for that stack of books to be read and reviewed.  A place for all the piles of to-do’s and to-file’s.  A place for bills to be paid and bank statements to be balanced.  A place for notes to be written and blog posts to brew.

A place for all the pen and paper and words things I am responsible for to happen…  My desk.