Wednesday, March 04, 2009

An empty room

The Champ’s room is empty save for a trundle bed bought for a handful of dollars at a yard sale and a corner dresser filled with clothes he’s still months away from fitting.

A beige towel – remaindered and untouched from the last overnight guest - lays folded on the chest’s blonde-colored top. It serves as a rough terry mattress for a smattering of keepsake toys with which he’s never played.

The corner boudoir – more extension of hallway than bedroom – has been a concern since the moment the ultrasound technician detected his wand with hers.

Thus he’s never spent a night in his room. He rarely spends the night in his crib.

His clothes – the ones that do fit him - are straining a cheap chest of drawers pushed into the back of my closet. The ones he’s outgrown make their way to a bag tucked in beside it, presumably to be left, like an orphan, on the steps of a charity in a moment of eyes-closed-shut resolve.

My husband wonders if we’ll have to wait until he goes to college before we get our room back. His jokes have sharp teeth that he wraps in humor to dull the effect on my soft flesh.

I refuse to talk about it.

I don’t want to give voice to all that I am thinking.

... That we are showing a kind of deep seated favoritism to our boy as we shuffled our girl off a room of her own when she was barely a year old.

... That he is my last child, and losing his baby-ness with each passing day.

... That things are progressing in the other house - the house that is not the home we brought them into but the one in which they will grow up - and that means more change.

... And that he will finally have a room that rivals his sister’s.

I don’t want to be reminded that my babies are growing up even though the fact of it confronts me each day at breakfast. Each day they get taller and taller, able to reach previously unattainable objects as they perch on tippy-toes.

Such happiness I feel in their accomplishment, and yet a somber tone sounds in my head '... soon they won't need me.'

The day is coming when we will have our room back. When we look at each other and have to figure out how to be alone again. How to just be us.

I don’t want think about that day if it means it will be missing the equivalent of the children’s weight in joy.


Binky said...

Sometimes those somber tones do ring pretty loudly. It's the soundtrack of this very lovely piece of writing.

kimmyk said...

i remember when adam and abbie were both little. (i think around 3 and 4) we had moved both of their beds into our room. abbie's little pink little tykes princess bed in one corner and adam's big boy twin bed in the other. i felt safe then. like i knew where they were at all times. it was comforting to wake in the middle of the night and sit up and look at the end of the room and see both of them quietly sleeping in their beds.

it wasn't long though that each wanted a space to call their own and then that's when we parted ways. (when they wanted out-not when i or jamie wanted them gone, because frankly, jamie never would have let them stay as long as they did had it not been for me refusing to talk to him about it)

enjoy silas in your room and the simple fact he's still a toddler.

and if it makes you feel better, start shoving those things that they seem to be able to reach now on their tip toes a little further back and smile a little to yourself when cries of "mom! i need help!" spill from their little lips.

Victoria said...

This is very touching. I know the feelings too well.

Sarah @ said...

There's nothing I can do to ease the aching, but I can say this:

They will always need you.

Anonymous said...

All I can say is that my two are 14 and 15 and I cannot tell you how many times a day I hear........MOOOOM.........

sara said...

Oh, this hit a spot in my soul. My oldest is 3 1/2 and the baby (yes, he will always be the baby) is turning 2 in a few weeks. It feels like my heart is going to break and fall out of my chest.

I worry that I show favoritism toward him. Is it because he has a kinder, gentler spirit that I find his company so captivating, or is it because he is it - the end of the line - the last of baby for me? I don't want my eldest to feel short changed because oh, how I love him, as well. Honestly, when October rolls around and I press that wax "4" into his cake, I'm sure the tears will roll down my cheeks then as well.

I miss the baby smell, the snuggling and the soft skin and getting drunk on their rolls. But, they are infinitely more fun (and more difficult somehow!) once they begin to walk and talk. I wonder if I'll ever be happy with ANY stage - if I'll wish for what once was (which at the time felt so! difficult!) or for the time that will be (when they can wipe their own bums and not repeat the same word countless times in five minutes).

I haven't visited your blog for a few weeks and I've missed your words. It's nice to see them on my screen today. Thank you for sharing your lives with us.

toyfoto said...

And I thank you for sharing with me; I know I'm not alone. But it's nice when people describe how close our experiences are. Different experiences, too.