You walked over to your sister last night and gave her a bear hug around the waist. She kissed you on the head.
It was bedtime.
Both of you were taking spins on the wheeled cars in the hallway. She was careening past you while you were pushing yourself along, slowly.
Time for bed.
You followed her down the hall and into her room. She let you play in her closet.
You were quiet.
As we were reading our books for that evening - "The Mitten," "I Love You," and the next chaper of "Alice in Wonderland," you interjected.
Clawing your way onto the bed, you first went for the books and then for the play tent your father recently repositioned for optimum purposes of princess pretending.
But the bedtime, right now, is only your sister's. She has a bed. And a room, and a routine.
After she was tucked in, kissed goodnight and the lights dimmed I closed the door and walked to the space that will be yours.
The room is an afterthought: A corner leftover from renovations. A place for weary travelers to spend the night. It has a trundle bed I bought at a yard sale for $15 and a dresser I bought for you.
No windows. No real doors. No space for much else besides walking in and out (or through).
When the ultrasound technician waved her magic wand and told me you were a boy, my heart sank. I wasn't disappointment because of you, however, rather I was disappointed for you. I knew this room would be yours. And I felt it wasn't enough.
Since then you've settled into our lives, but not really into our house. There is not place that's really yours. I've put it off. You were, afterall, a baby. A part of me could justify your being still a part of me. At night, in bed, with you kicking gently into comfort, I am reminded of when you were kicking on the inside. I can imagine you are still a part of me.
That night, as your sister settled down to sleep, I took you into your room thinking I might be inspired. You had no urge to get down. There was nothing for you here. Maybe some shelves for toys would make it more welcoming? Maybe a plush rug? Still nothing.
I heave a sigh and snap off the light: "I'll think on this tomorrow, boyo. Tonight you are still a baby."