The Ikea Catalogue of Needs by Shelley McAlister

You wonder if Ikea is really the best choice of venues to put a family back together.  You know it’s not going to be an easy day but you hold out hope. You’re in a conciliatory mood – you have to be – so when Crista suggests Ikea you say ok even though the last thing you need right now is Scandinavian Cool. On the other hand, you are open-minded. You tell yourself that the orderliness of Ikea might be a benefit. You’ve all been in chaos for so long that maybe named departments, arrows on floors, cleverly designed plastic junk will help bring things together. Dynamic and coordinated, that’s what you’ll need to be. 

In November a flyer came through your door announcing the opening of the new Ikea. You sat on the broken sofa and flipped through the catalogue; there were families around breakfast tables, cupboards stuffed with toys, children’s beds. All that winter while Crista and the kids lived away, you kept flipping through that catalogue. There was a bedroom suite called Vinstra, white and clinical clean. All tickety boo said page 158.  But this was not a place you’d want to sleep. You longed for warmth and safety, a place where something other than order is a priority. Still, Crista insisted that if she came back, things were going to have to change. She demanded big ideas in small spaces, a new design for living. You wondered where you would find this new design. You looked to the catalogue for inspiration. There was a page proclaiming that designers at Ikea are all mad. There was a picture of a man named Anders who designed a plastic rocking chair for twenty-five quid.  You wondered if you should get in touch with Mad Anders, talk to him about life. 

Now you are back together, you and Crista and Sally and little Heath, who has been deposited in the supervised playroom. Heath has been signed in and can remain there playing happily with coloured balls. You do not have to hold his five year old hand, which means your hands are free to grab more stuff to put into your shopping trolley. Clever marketing.  And there’s another member of your family now, born after Crista left you. He’s in a pouch on Crista’s chest, facing towards her. He’s sleeping peacefully, his tiny hands curled into fists. 

‘You’ll need those, boy,’ you want to tell him but this seems too cynical a message to give to a four month old baby.

Inside Ikea Sally gazes up at the vastness of the entrance hall. ‘Where do we go from here?’

This is a question you have been asking yourself. You offer a reply. ‘Depends what we’re looking for I guess.’

Sally looks at both you and Crista. ‘What are we looking for?’

None of you has a clue.

The Ikea catalogue suggests, you’ll need some ready-to-go solutions. You’re going to need to expand your frontiers with solutions that boldly go where no solutions have gone before. You’ll want strong patterns to make an impact: orange swirls, lime green circles, tiny turquoise dots.  If that’s what it takes, bring it on.

You find yourselves in Sofas. You see the Ektorp sofa, where a 100 kilogram dummy has sat 47,689 times to test durability. After that you suppose the sofa gives way so that the dummy tumbles onto the laminate floor. He does not take it lying down, as the catalogue suggests:  you imagine him suing you, bringing further divisions within the family. But the Ektorp has something to teach you. It has removable covers which reveal a sound structure;  unlike you, it’s built to take the rough and tumble of life. 

You shuffle through to Quilts. According to the banners billowing over the department, quilts are like a marriage of opposites, where durable meets super soft. Which is which in your case? Well, it’s pretty clear.  Crista is durable.  It’s you that’s super soft. 

The quilts have a tog rating from 4.5 to 12. 

‘What rating are we today?’ you wonder. 

Crista and Sally both ignore you.

At the moment, standing in Quilts in a soft white canyon of pillows and duvets, you’re a 7.5. That means not too flimsy but unburdened by heaviness. Good.  If 7.5 is as good as it gets, you’ll take it.

You move into Beds, where they promise that you can find your personal comfort factor, though you haven’t found it yet. This past week since Crista and the kids came back hasn’t been a bed of roses. Nothing feels secure. That’s why Ikea promise beds that take good care of you. You imagine a uniformed Ikea woman bringing you a drink of water when you wake up in the night with a dry throat.  She’s a cross between a security guard and a nurse.  What do you do when you want to make love? Does she discreetly disappear or do you have to ask her to step into the All Things Sorted wardrobe?  All things are not sorted, you know that, but one day they will be. 

You follow the arrows on the floor to the next department. Youth Rooms have guest beds tucked under other beds so that kids can have sleepovers. They have book cases with extension units, and swivel chairs and laptop work stations. It’s not just a room, it’s their universe. 

Sally is bored now, checks her texts. 

You take a shortcut between departments and notice a banner which could be your mantra: You just need to give yourself some space.

You point it out to Crista and Sally.

‘That could apply to anyone, don’t you think?’

‘You’re really, really annoying, Dad,’ Sally tells you. She is slouching, chewing gum, twisting a lock of hair around her finger. Her jeans are shredded to bits, too long, and her top is too short so that an awful lot of skin in the middle is showing. Last year you gave Crista your little girl and she has brought back a youth from another universe.

Kitchens. You take refuge in the Abstrakt high-gloss space with its every-purpose surface. The floor is called Tundra. It has a click-lock function. It’s sold in packs of two point three nine square meters. Tundra.You question the concept;  it’s fine through the summer but come autumn, your kitchen floor is piled high with ice and snow. It’ll thaw in the spring, sure, but imagine making cocoa in your bare feet on Christmas morning. 

A busy kitchen, like a family, needs to be planned well to multitask.The kitchen island is the focus of the action. 

‘Why don’t we move to a kitchen island?’ you say to Sally.‘It’s like a desert island, only with fridges.’ In the past she would have found this funny. Now she rolls her eyes and tuts in disgust. Crista turns around and gives you a pleading look.

In Seating you suddenly feel hot, realise you have not breathed fresh air for three hours. Your jacket feels like a 13 tog duvet. You feel faint, tell Crista you have to sit down.  You perch on the edge of a plastic rocking chair with your head in your hands. The room spins. Where is Anders when you need him?

‘Dad, you’re embarrassing us,’ Sally reminds you.

If you move, you will throw up. How embarrassing is that. 

‘Stop being so dramatic,’ Crista says. 

You reach out for the rucksack with the bottled water in it. Sally finds it for you, thrusts it into your hand. You manage to unscrew the cap, drink it.  You hold your head up but your eyes are still closed.  

‘Feel better?’ Sally asks. There is a hint of concern in her voice that cheers you. 

‘I think so.’

You stand up and the three of you walk through a lime-green curtain into a fresh hell. Ikea Children is a whirl of plastic and primary colours. Everything has been fashioned into animals or cartoon characters. Everything is designed to hold something else. A frog called Groda hangs on the wall holding other grodas. Boxes are stacked together holding other boxes. You speculate that inside these boxes there are boxes that get increasingly smaller, like Russian dolls. You imagine a whole wardrobe full of plastic coat hangers on which are hung other coat hangers but no coats. Real things like wet nappies and muddy shoes and skinned knees are not in evidence.

In the cafeteria Crista goes to change the baby. You and Sally join the queue for lunch. Sally chews on the ends of her hair and studies the menu. You invite her to try some Swedish meatballs. No way, she says. She speculates that it’s reindeer meat.

You’re so much like me, you want to tell her, but you can’t. She’ll find that out for herself.

 There’s a pasta dish with or without meatballs. You go for the meatballs. Sally says yuck to everything, eventually chooses fish and chips and a blueberry muffin. She’s still picking at the cold chips when Crista comes back with the baby. You offer to get her something but she says no, what she really wants is a pee. She hesitates slightly, hands you the baby. 

It’s the first time you have held the baby. You look down at his fat little face and wonder if he looks like you. He has curvy, heart-shaped lips; not your lips, that’s for sure.  His hair is sandy, as is yours, but it’s too soon to tell. His eyes are hazel, starring up at you, not quite trusting. Why should he trust you? You might not even be his dad. You may spend the rest of your life not being his dad. 

Sally’s hair is dragging in her ketchup and she goes on eating chips, not noticing.  You grab a paper napkin and dab at her hair, trying to help. She makes a face, pulls away.  Your movement has unsettled the baby. He starts to wail. You jiggle him on your knee, put him on your shoulder, hold him back and rock him. Nothing works.

People are staring at you even though this is supposed to be a child friendly universe.  There is an oasis for nursing mothers. There is a baby changing station and bottle warmers and lockers to store baby paraphernalia. There are high-chairs and mobiles and soft play areas. But no one wants to eat their reindeer meatballs with a screaming baby.

            You recall the page of the catalogue where it says Give yourself some space.  It could be just what you need to restore sanity. Quite right. 

Crista is walking towards you.

‘I think maybe we should go,’ you say to Sally and you are surprised when she doesn’t protest. Crista doesn’t protest either. On her way to the loo she has ordered some chairs.  She has picked up a tea-light holder and some candy-floss sheets and a hooded towel for the baby which will make him look like a druid. 

Once out the door you breathe again. You are carrying a flat pack of stackable chairs called Herman. You eventually find the car and pile in, descending the spiral exit ramp designed by a mad man. You reach the bottom before you realise that Heath’s child seat is empty.

You wait for Crista to blame you but she doesn’t.

You drive back up the ramp, hold the baby while she retrieves Heath. He comes back smiling, clutching an armful of grodas.

On the motorway the baby is quiet. You glance in the rear-view mirror and see Heath and Sally sleeping with their heads fallen together. Crista reaches over and touches your arm, asks if you’ve had a good day.

‘All tickety boo,’ you tell her.

She hesitates, looks worried. ‘Do you think we’ve got everything we need?’

‘I’m sure of it,’ you say.