A cup of hot coffee turned ice cold. I still drink it, dependent on its chilly bite for a few more letters hacked out on the page.
Children’s color-coded love notes pinned to the wall, I’ve waited lifetimes for these. Even the baby, old enough to tell me she isn’t, proclaims her mastery of the arts, “See! See, Mommy, I did that!” And she did. Whatever marker scribbles taste like, she did that too with gusto.
I have a corner in a room that for five years has been the undertaker of all things not easily categorized–old journals, maternity clothes, magic cards, wedding paraphernalia, baby shoes, poster frames. Our basement is at capacity. Our extra rooms are spoken for. The attic is questionable.
We did things backward I’ve been told. When you buy a house you should take care of the bedroom first, this is where you will be resting, where you will recover and recoup. We did as most proud new home owners do, take care of the places people see. It seemed reasonable, the first floor is where the living happens.
Then there were the babies. We spared nothing on fun and function in their sweet little rooms.
Though the house has little to no curb appeal, (as proof we were ready to walk away before stepping in on that frozen January noon), the inside is warm and inviting, cozy. A three bedroom Dutch Colonial replete with hip roof and breakfast nook, it’s achingly minimal on closet space. We’ve had to be inventive.
Finally, after bustling over clothes baskets and baby bibs, we loaded up the donation bags and cleared out the overstock. Once our room uncluttered I found myself organizing, decorating even. This isn’t to say it’s a finished work, not even close. I can’t stand the color of the walls, all robin’s egg blue and sea foam green, and our bed (blushing here) doesn’t even have a frame. But there is order, a new openness, a brightness where once there were moving boxes. It feels hopeful.