This morning, the Wolvog asked if he could have a slumber party with Lindsay. "She could sleep in Aunt J's room," the ChickieNob agreed, referring to the room where my best friend sleeps sometimes when in town. This is the room that belongs to the not-yet baby.
When we were trying to conceive the ChickieNob and Wolvog, I kept their intended room as a dumping ground and office. I hated working in there and thinking about how someone else was supposed to be occupying the space but I think it would have been even worse if it had remained empty.
My mother has been nudging me to use the second bedroom more efficiently. Right now, it contains the futon that has become our guest bed (welcome to our house; please enjoy this lumpy mattress reminiscent of your college days), a dresser and armoire, and then junk. Piles and piles of junk. Old toys, old clothes, clothes we don't feel like hanging up, clean unfolded towels, unused pillows, a pack-n-play. Junk. It's the type of room that makes people anxious with the clutter.
But I didn't want to do anything with it because changing it in any way felt like a sign of defeat. If it was being used for some other purpose, it wouldn't be designated for the not-yet baby. And that would be a sign of defeat. This, of course, doesn't make sense since we used the ChickieNob and Wolvog's room at one point as an office. I like to look at the corner that once held my computer and think about the work I completed before they arrived.
In explaining why Lindsay probably wouldn't want to have a sleepover party at our house considering she lives a few miles away, I mentioned that we could do something with that room. Make it into an extension of the Playmobil lands that exist in our basement and living room. It felt right. It felt like we weren't taking anything away. We were simply adding. And when the time came to use that room, the lands would merge and the whole basement would be flooded by little pieces of molded plastic. It would also mean that I could go horizontal while they were making up their stories, lounging on the open futon like a lady of leisure. It would mean that I could clean upstairs while they're awake.
It feels like nothing. It feels like a big step. It feels like I'm welcoming. It feels like I'm shutting a door. It feels like we have had Playmobil now invade every single level of the house. Which makes vacuuming a nightmare when you see those tiny plastic flowers being sucked into the Dyson and you have to stick your hand into a cloud of dust in order to retrieve them.
It is so strange how a room--a space--can take on this greater meaning of intention or welcome or emptiness (even while physically full of crap). What is currently in your not-yet baby's space? What was in that space before your child arrived? Are there rooms in your house that are greater than the sum of its physical parts?