Our home is about 12 years old, and we have been in it for almost 11 of those years. Despite all the ways in which D and I have changed in those years, and how our family has changed, I have never really thought of our home having much of a history.
A couple weekends ago, D and I painted the room that has served as a nursery for all three children. It is now N's "big girl" room. Since 2004 its walls have changed from fleshy peach to moonlight yellow (N's nursery wall color) to bright orange (the boys' nursery wall color) to dahlia purple (the big girl color).
The boys' nursery
As I was painting I remembered how I had the room decorated when it sat empty for a few years between us purchasing the house and making it the nursery. I remember buying N's crib and changing table/dresser. I remember working on a cross-stitch wall-hanging for her room that I didn't complete until she was 6 weeks old. I remember her as an infant in that room, in her crib, on the floor. Laying on the changing table reading a book, or the two of us reading together in the rocking chair in that room.
N in her crib.
And I remember the boys in that room, in the crib, on the floor. Nursing all three of the children every night before bed. Groggily wandering into the room in the wee hours of the night when they cried and whined and needed momma's tender touch.
G in his crib.
G crawled for the first time in his nursery.
Monkey M in his nursery, prepping for Halloween 2010.
As happy as I am to be done playing musical bedrooms (for a long time until one or the other of the kids decides to sleep in the downstairs guest bedroom that now serves as a playroom), it also makes me a little sad to know that my nursery is gone, that my babies are no longer babies. That my big girl feels "like a teenager" now that she has her own room (which she wrote to Nana in a letter).