The Little Tikes playhouse, the one with the windows that open and the doorbell that chirps, fits perfectly in the TV room, wedged next to the loveseat. On the other side, an easel displays a chalk drawing of stick figures and enormous flowers. Or maybe enormous butterflies. I can’t tell which.

On the patio, there’s a red wagon, two tricycles and a collection of pool toys: pails and shovels in assorted colors, a plastic sieve and mismatched rakes. In the remodeled kitchen, a well-used high chair. In the living room, a basket of crayons and coloring books.

A friend, visiting our new house, surveyed our eclectic décor with concern. “You know,” she said, “you can have a grown-up house now.”

Indeed, a grown-up house for a grown-up life. Certainly I can have that, but I won’t.

Years ago, I dreamed of owning a home where everything stayed in its place, where mysterious stains were no longer part of the fabric pattern on the sofa, where little toys did not peek out from under end tables and where track lighting, placed just so, brought to life carefully selected artwork. I dreamed of a house that wasn’t cluttered with the artifacts of parenting.

No Southern Living or Architectural Digest for me, but a little grown-up cachet, I was sure, could go a long way. That would have meant, of course, that there would actually be silver in the dining room’s “silver” closet, not science-project remnants. It would have meant Restoration Hardware accessories, not football pads propped in corners.

Obviously, I was delusional. Children require stuff, or at least we think they do. Visit any new parents’ home and you’ll be amazed at the gear: the swing, the crib, the changing table, the two-way monitor, the stroller, the musical bouncer. And that’s just for starters. In the process of expanding our families, we grow our collection of gadgets, too. Eventually, our prized possessions — Lladro figurines, say — share shelf space with our children’s park-league sports trophies.

With my children grown and time for reflection, I recognize that my house was similar to many. Ours was among the fortunate families who struggle with that all-American problem of too much stuff.

For a while, I had ample opportunity to adjust the décor. I had at my disposal the space and resources to upgrade to that look I once desired. But then the grandchildren arrived, and I discovered that I absolutely need the easel, the play yard, the ExerSaucer activity center.

Interior design, I’ve learned, is not always about color scheme and furnishings. Sometimes the beauty that surrounds us is neither framed or signed. Sometimes it simply elicits a squeal of delight or — more likely — a squabble between siblings. My prized possessions may never fetch a pretty penny at auction, but the memories they will shape — oh, the memories!

Follow Ana on Twitter @AnaVeciana.