Today we replaced the old, salmon-colored vanity in our downstairs bathroom. I'm pretty sure it was the original one placed in the house when it was built in 1948. I spent much of the afternoon sneaking peeks at our handyman, gleefully giggling as the nasty contraption was carried out the front door, piece by piece. I encouraged the kids, who were holed up in Ryan's room, to watch the thrilling event as well. Suffice it to say that they did not find the progress nearly as enchanting as Minecraft.
As I was getting Matthew (7) ready for bed tonight, I told him to go brush his teeth in "our beautiful new sink." A few moments later, he entered his bedroom with a quivering chin and teary eyes. "Mom," he quavered, "it just makes me sad to throw away old things." I was dumbfounded. This caught me so completely off guard, since he had shown very little interest, or even awareness, of the day's events. I explained to him that the sink had been here in the house from the start, and had come to the end of its very long and useful life and was ready to be removed.
He didn't buy a word of it. In fact, it seemed to upset him even further, sobbing:
"It just made me feel like somebody died when they took our old sink away."
Silence. This was one of those parental moments when the mountain you must climb before anyone will even think about sleeping has just been revealed to you. Oh boy.
Suffice it to say that I tried. I tried to talk to him about the necessity of letting things go sometimes; the need to improve and replace and try new things in houses and in life. I tried to assure him that the sink was not alive and did not have any feelings to hurt as we ripped it out of the wall and dumped it next to the street without a single backward glance. I tried to explain that we were thankful to the sink for all its dutiful years of service to our family and would never ever forget it, despite the slick sheen of black granite and fresh white paint of its new (and glorious) successor. The salmon laminate was, well, unforgettable, I said...
Nothing worked. Nothing helped except holding him in my bed as he cried and eventually asked for his bedtime story. To him, the bathroom was just fine as it was. It was more than fine, because it was ours. And that was enough.
So, I say to the broken pile of salmon countertop and splintered boards resting by our mailbox:
Please know that my youngest son shed tears over your destruction tonight. You are appreciated, you are missed and you are loved. You represent security and comfort and familiarity to my child, who, like the rest of us (who just moved back to NY from Chicago), is experiencing huge transitions and shifts and waves of sometimes overwhelming emotion. Your removal represents something so much larger to him than simply upgrading a household fixture. Your removal was yet another removal of something he knew, and it was just too much to bear after a long and active day. Thank you for becoming a physical symbol of the power of change, and for reminding me to be extra aware of the little hearts around me who are carrying so many tender feelings inside them.
That said, as a 44-year-old woman speaking from a purely aesthetic standpoint, I am so freaking glad you are gone. Godspeed.
