I have a distinct memory of when Jeremy and I purchased our current kitchen table. We'd been using an Ikea table that I acquired right out of college for twelve years, and it was clear we needed to upgrade. Not only was its wood veneer cracking badly, but it was far too small, even when extended, to fit all the people we had for our regular Dungeons & Dragons gatherings. Jeremy and I went with the girls to a local, real wood furniture store to find a piece that would look good, fit a crowd, and last. Amelia was three at the time, and Clara was a baby, maybe a few months old. By some stroke of bad luck, we'd forgotten to bring the diaper bag. By a double stroke of bad luck, Clara pooped.
Our precarious situation put us at a crossroads. Should we abandon the table purchase, return home, and then trek two small children out, yet again, to pick the perfect table? Or should we make a decisive judgment? We chose to be decisive. (It didn't help much--then came chair choice and stain choice and leg style choice. Fortunately Clara didn't seem to care too much.)
Still, I was pleased with our table purchase. It was the first piece of "real" furniture Jeremy and I purchased together. It was a rich, dark brown wood. In its smaller form, it was the perfect size for a family of four; fully extended, it easily fit our D&D group.
Our family loved that table, but in the suffocating-the-cat-by-laying-on-it way, not the loving care kind of way. From the beginning, our girls ate the same food as us, not baby food, and they ate it from the table, not a high chair. We tried to keep the table somewhat protected, but we unwisely used thick plastic placemats and rubber meal mats, which trapped moisture underneath. Within a short period of time, the finish at the girls' two ends of the table had rubbed away. As the years passed, the table became sticky-feeling, its finish gone.
A year ago I tried to repair some of the damage, but only succeeded in giving the table a weirdly-shiny sheen that did nothing to cover the worn and sticky areas. So, a couple months ago, I made another decisive decision: I'd get it refinished. A local craftsman agreed to take on the job. He picked the table up in early December and returned it a week later, this past Monday evening.
It's beautiful. It looks brand new! The top is smooth and gleams mildly. It makes me happy looking at it.
A few people asked me why we didn't just buy a new table. We spent $700 on the refinishing, which was cheaper than the original table but certainly not a small amount of money. But I'd never considered getting rid of it. It's our table. I'm proud of it. It was with us through the throes of toddlerdom. It's hosted D&D, game nights, gingerbread-house parties, Thanksgiving during Covid, and dinners with family friends. It survived a 250-pound man falling through the ceiling and landing on it! (that's another story) And, now, it even looks good too.
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