It’s a part of our house. Sitting there, in all it’s majesty, holding court in the Room of Babies. Give and take a few months here and there, it has been the night-time home to our babies for almost 9 years.
So many mornings of my life have entailed going into that room and scooping a delicious angelic bundle, swaddled meticulously, into my arms. Then, as they grew older, my days began with an active toddler holding the railing and yelling to get out.
Our nursery was always yellow and white. Sunny, bright and cheerful, I breastfed in that room, sang my babies to sleep, changed diapers, and soothed tears. I was exhausted but Ioved it. I still do. Something about that room gave me peace and took me away from other worries.
But, today, things changed. Our Baby has been sleeping in her older siblings’ bunk beds for the past few weeks and only takes the odd nap in her crib. The nursery is largely empty and unused, a vestigial relic in a house with growing kids. Today, we gave away the crib, changing table and rocker to friends who are embarking on a journey that we began years ago.
I vacuumed and cleaned the walls of the strangely vacant room, and at 2pm the delivery truck dropped off the Boy’s new bed. A dark wood bed with blue sheets and a soccer pillow now takes the place of our nursery furniture. I walked by the strong, masculine room and wondered, “Where am I?”
Where did that mother of babies go?
In one day, my house is so different. And so am I.