Dear Reese,
I read you Room on the Broom in an attempt to push your nap back a little longer, and you close your eyes in my arms. You barely open your eyes when I set you down in your crib.
This morning MorMor came over and we did a pass at getting some of the knick-knacks off the shelves. I cleaned off the pictures and magnets on the fridge. Next month, it’s looking like we’re going to list this place as a step to building a home of our own. There are so many moving pieces we’ll see how it all works out.
MorMor comments that you won’t remember this place at all and, unexpectedly, it brings tears to my eyes. This condo was never meant to be our forever house, but that you will have a home for the first year of your life that you don’t remember makes me a little sad. I give you a hug while you stand in your activity center.
I’ll remember it for us. I’ve written so much of it down already. And by now you’ve scooted through nearly every inch of it. You make an obstacle course of the cat tree and find forgotten cat toys pushed into the corner. Though we’ve done some basic baby proofing on the fireplace hearth, you like to get under the sharp corner that, padding or not, will hurt if you throw your head up at the wrong time. I toss a toy in another direction to lure you away. I don’t think we’ll have a fireplace in a new home, maybe just an electric stove instead, so one less thing to worry about you cracking your head on in the future.
MorMor said that by putting things away little by little, gradually the place doesn’t feel like home anymore, and you’re ready to move on when it’s time. We have a lot of time before that — and who knows what will happen, no one has signed on any dotted line — but little by little we can start.
And after all, no matter where we live, we’ll be together.
Love,
Mama