The tale of the untouchable table.

When we moved across the country from my in-laws’ house in Mississippi to Portland, Oregon, we shed most of our belongings, so when we bought our home the summer after our move, we had to furnish it from the ground up.

This was actually pretty exciting for us. Our home had once been a blended concoction of hand-me-down furniture, which we were grateful for since we had always lived on such a small budget. But this time we could actually pick out items that suited our taste and only purchase pieces that we actually needed instead of items we’d accepted because we didn’t know how to say no.

One of our favorite new pieces of furniture was a Restoration Hardware reclaimed wood and forged iron dining table that the Mr. found on Craigslist. Originally retailing at $1,600, we bought it gently used for $400 and patted ourselves on the back for weeks after. It was massive and beautiful and seated 10, a dream of mine to have our table filled with people dining and laughing together coming true. I marveled at the worn-in character, the deep crevices of the wood grain and the natural knotting of the wood. Sure, it took up more than its fair share of our 1,000-square-foot home, but I knew this wasn’t our forever home. It was, in my mind, our forever dining table. So we made room and bent around it. 

However, we also had small children who spilled, and we were constantly on edge about the reclaimed barn wood splintering in tiny pieces. I would get snags in the fabric of my shirt any time I rubbed against the rough, raw, worn-in wood and anxiety when crumbs found their way deep into the grain or a child tipped over their water glass. They couldn’t color a picture on the table without putting something underneath because of the rough texture (and my disdain for crayon markings), and I found myself avoiding craft projects altogether for fear of damaging the table and losing my sanity. 

Still, I loved that table. It didn’t matter to me that only one end of it fit under our dining room light fixture, and we would need to rewire the dining room to light the entire table or let half of our guests sit in the shadows. I loved the elegant centerpiece displays I could make at holidays and how many friends we could fit around it. How we could dress up and enjoy a fancy Valentine’s Day dinner with floral arrangements and candles, or spread out taco fixin’s down the middle for Taco Tuesday while munching on chips and homemade salsa and guac, with our friends and their kids. It wore fancy and casual both so well, and I loved how the beautiful wood texture made the perfect backdrop for Instagram photos. (It’s all about the ‘gram, right?) 

But I was really never at rest, crying over spilt milk and crayon smears. More times than I could remember, I’d yell, “This is why we can’t have nice things!” whenever I’d find food remnants or a stray marker streak. Our kids were nervous wrecks when I’d bravely fix them smoothies in real glasses because they knew they’d meet Mama’s dark side if that glass overturned. I found that I looked forward to the day when the kids would be grown up and past the messy phase, wishing away a precious season of life in exchange for our table to look pristine. It was more than a beautiful table—it was untouchable. And despite the incredible deal we found and the expensive quality, it was becoming more of a burden than a blessing.

So when we were getting ready to put our house on the market this past spring, I exhaled a bittersweet sigh of relief when our realtor told us that, for staging purposes, we needed to replace the table with something smaller. The enormous length of that table would trick buyers into thinking the house was too small. I mean, it already was small; no need to make it appear smaller. We listed it for sale online and actually made money on it, selling it for $900 to a couple of empty nesters across the river in Vancouver. 

We bought another, smaller, painted black oval table with a narrow leaf and wobbly legs on OfferUp for a mere $40. It fit four chairs comfortably, so we crammed two chairs together on one side at mealtimes to fit our family of five. But it had a smooth top and a lot of life left, and I felt I could breathe better knowing I didn’t really care whether it got messed up. 

We transported the new-old table to our apartment, and it fit comfortably in the space, leaving plenty of breathing room. But more importantly, it also fits our family life so much better than the old one ever did. Mealtimes are peaceful now; spills and crumbs wipe up with no drama or speeches about being more careful. We have the room we need for homeschool, and we have enjoyed many craft times at that table. 

Sure it has a few paint platters here and there that add to the character and displays the fun we have now as a family around the table. 

Sure, it’s smaller, but we discovered that our friends don’t actually care if we pull out an additional folding table and lawn chairs to make room for everyone. It’s not the table that makes the gathering, but the people. I’d rather have a room that’s filled with love than with an oversized piece of furniture, anyways. 

I feel like it’s a universal struggle of moms to find the balance between savoring the season with little ones and building a beautiful home. We either give in completely to the inevitable reality that our home will be messy, toys and crumbs will perpetually litter our floors, and our cheap self-assembled furniture will have nicks and cracks and stains—or we’ll spend all our finite energy scolding and tidying and establishing strict rules and resign ourselves to being indefinitely stressed until the nest is empty.

The book of Proverbs states over and over that’s it’s better to have just a little along with peace than to have a house full of treasures with the strife to accompany them. I have found this to be true for our family. There is no amount of money or high-end heirloom pieces that can replace the sense of peace in our home. 

And there’s no amount of memories of the kids putting their heart and soul on a canvas with messy brush strokes, of mealtimes spent laughing instead of scolding, of crumbs from homemade cookies baked together on a rainy afternoon, that would ever be enough.