My room has a big old-timey heating register. A metal shelf has been built encasing it, either to protect people from idly resting things on the white-hot coils or to create a functional surface out of an oversized bothersome structure or both. I hung a mirror above mine and used the shelf surface for makeup and jewelry, creating a sort of vanity table. It works.
When my mom was helping me move in, she was worked up over my choice to set THINGS PRECIOUS THINGS on top of the shelf and immediately pulled a tape measure out of her purse (cause you never know) and started making quick measurements and pensively biting her nails. I chalked it up to faulty circuitry from popping out three kids in three years and ignored it. But today in the mail, I got a package from her enclosing a beautiful quilted runner for the shelf in my three favorite colors. My mom has handmade me so many things over the years, from gluegunned hairbows to abstract Halloween costumes to my high school graduation quilt. As it turns out, motherhood doesn't expire.
Thanks, Mom. 'Cause when I said at 8 that I had to be The Blob from that '50s B-movie for Halloween, you could have said, "Are you sure you don't want to be a cat?"
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