This house, with its dearth of closets, was going to be mighty intolerant of Things

W

hen I first laid eyes on the apartment that would become my home, as a young kallah, it was love at first sight.

True, the kitchen was miniscule, and the dining room just about fit the furniture. But the location was great, it had a porch, and best of all, there were three bedrooms (okay, two and a half). I gleefully made my way through the rooms, mind awhirl with calculations. I could fit a bunk bed in the small room, a crib and hi-riser into the bigger one.… “I could live here until I have seven kids,” I concluded.

Except, as my 19-year-old self would soon discover, this didn’t account for two basic facts. One, kids don’t spend their days stored neatly in their beds. And whatever it is kids do when they’re out and about, calls for more space than this cute little 700-square-footer.

Also, kids come with Things. Lots and lots of Things. And this house, with its dearth of closets, was going to be mighty intolerant of Things.

Which is why, a few years and considerably fewer than seven kids later, I was beginning to feel suffocated. It wasn’t even the lack of living space — though that was an issue, too — so much as the Things. They were everywhere.