Stan with Four and Five, in February 2015. Photo Credit Lindsay Crandall.

When I was growing up, we had an ugly brown hassock in our living room. Many of my happiest childhood memories involve that hassock. I remember the sensation of being breathlessly underneath it while another sibling balanced on top, or attempting to balance on it while we rolled it on its side, using it as a drum, leaning on a book against it while coloring or drawing, pretending it was a steep cliff for our toys, throwing it at one another, or sitting on it on top of the sofa cushions like royalty.

As an adult, I wanted a hassock for my own house because A. We need all the seating we can get in our modestly-sized living room and B. I want my own kids to have fun memories of playing with a hassock.

I picked out a lovely, colorful one on Overstock several years ago, and realized immediately that it broke the rule that says that with so many kids in the house, One Cannot Have Nice Things. As I waited for it to arrive in the mail, I wondered how in the world I could protect it from destruction.

It arrived, and I unboxed it. When the kids came in, full of curiosity, I introduced them to Stan. “This is Stan,” I said. “We can sit on him and play with him, but we don’t jump on him or treat him badly, because that will ruin him and then we will have to throw him away.”

Sometimes, my ideas are complete fails. But for some reason, calling this hassock Stan worked for my kids. And Stan is still in one piece.

I have certain ideas for how I want my house to look. I like things to be stored in baskets. I like large throw pillows with bold prints. I like things to be organized, clean, and clutter-free. I like metal, wood, and rich colors. I also recognize that anything I bring into my house, whether it’s a $5 paper light shade from Ikea, or a $50 mirror from Target, risks getting broken by my enthusiastic progeny.

In fact, I have had to say goodbye to a number of things, some of which were quite old and had done just fine until my kids got a hold of them.

Stan seems to be a notable exception. While I had to sew up a hole in him, and plump him up with some additional stuffing, he has held up quite well to the abuses of being dragged around the house, used in the making of forts, and regularly sat upon. I chalk this up to the fact that when he entered our home, I introduced him and assigned value to him by giving him a name.

Seven and Stan

When I catch someone abusing Stan, I often just remind the offending kid “That’s not how we treat Stan,” and they will quickly back off.

I know I can’t name every object in my home that I hope my kids won’t destroy. I can’t even call the kids by their proper names half the time (I’ve heard we store loved ones’ names in our brain all in one spot, which is why we often call all the other names before we get to the right one – they are jumbled together in our heads). And the idea of personifying a bunch of objects wouldn’t be a good reflection of my values, either.

But it is satisfying that for all the things my kids have broken or destroyed since I started sharing my home with them, perhaps, if only just with Stan, they are also learning how to respect and take care of our nest so that it continues to be a nice place to be.