This weekend, Bryce helped me hang my National Board certificate on my wall of pinboards. I have a row of three squares over my desk -- corkboard/white board calendar/corkboard. Bryce helped me hang some pictures up on the wall above the chaise lounge that I've wanted to get up there, as the one lonely owl painting wasn't quite right.
|Some functional mess going on here, but look at all the pinboard space!|
|Space for more pictures under the owl and my favorite picture ever of Bryce in Carmel-by-the-Sea|
|A good reminder to get up off my ass and do things today.|
And while he was hanging up a metalwork round mirror thingie in the space where it lived before this was a nursery, in the second iteration of the four it's had since I've lived here, I found myself on the chaise lounge, feeling intensely sad.
|Ignore the fan on the bra box...|
I was looking at the window seat Bryce built me back when this was a guest room with aspirations to one day be a nursery, and staring at the picture books I have left. I couldn't see the remaining board books that have "Dear Baby T_____" bookplates from my baby shower since I shoved that basket under the chaise lounge, because why stare at those tiny, shiny, durable daggers all the time? But the picture books...so many of them were mine before we thought bringing a baby home was inevitable. Some from when I worked at Scholastic, some that I collected at book fairs or used book stores or bought specifically for a baby that didn't exist, and a few that are my own from childhood.
I did go through and donate a whole bunch of children's books to the boxes around school that go to a partner city school district elementary school...mostly early readers and chapter books that are too young for my students but I hung on to from my Scholastic days for my own future child.
I finally felt ready to let go of a whole bunch of those, only keeping ones that have a significance to me, not to some phantom child who never was.
But the picture books... I stared at them and just wondered...why hold on to them? Why keep books meant for small children that we don't have, will never have, and won't hold as grandbabies? There won't be any bedtime stories. Maybe I should let them go, so they can have a life elsewhere putting children to bed and teaching children life lessons.
Or maybe not.
As it is, my office is decidedly more...office-y than ever before, with my wall hangings and all the things that replace any hint of nursery.
Except those picture books, the basket of board books beneath the chaise, and the tiny scrap of wall decal I didn't want to let go of.
|The decal is looking more and more out of place. Or maybe not.|
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