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BECOMING A PARENT means letting go of lots of little luxuries—sleeping late, cussing with abandon, eating food from your own plate—but in my early days as a mom, what I mourned the most was the luxury of exercising good taste. I’d spent my child-free twenties and thirties trolling auctions and flea markets, proudly assembling a trousseau of ironstone platters, mod art pottery and handblown cocktail coupes.
Then my sweet, squalling little boy arrived. Keeping him happy and healthy I could handle. But the way cartoon-festooned…