When I think of home...

At the top of the stairs there is a little room.
It isn't very big, but it isn't too small - as Goldilocks would say, "It's just right."

For awhile the little room would welcome any guest that would stay with us.  We decorated it simply and cheaply, secretly knowing the plans we had for this room one day.  A permanent guest we hoped it would welcome in the future.

When we found out we were having you, our first son, I had a lot of dreams for that little room.  I agonized over paint swatches of pale green.  Matched them to the bedspread I had so carefully selected for you.  Fanned them out on the wall.  Contemplated the difference between "celery" and "sage."

I planned projects for the little room.  I made your daddy put up custom moulding.  I selected pieces of furniture.  I placed a rocking chair and ottoman in the corner, a gift from your great grandmother and great aunts. I sewed a personalized sampler to hang on the wall.

While we waited for you to come, you could often find your daddy or me sitting in that rocker.  Listening to the sweet lullaby CD we chose for the little room.  Dreaming of the little boy we couldn't wait to meet.

I remember thinking the crib had tripled in size the first time I laid you in it.  You looked so tiny and fragile.  I thought the room was too big for you.

And now, 20 months later, the room seems so perfect for you.  The way your daddy and I would picture it as we rocked quietly in the corner and dreamed.

In 20 months, we have had so many memories in this room.  We have played.  We have comforted.  We have watched you learn new things.  We've read Guess How Much I Love You?  and Goodnight, Moon more times than we can count.

It's a little room, but we've learned it can hold so much joy.

In your life, you are likely to live in a great many rooms.  Smaller rooms, bigger rooms.  Rooms that are just down the hall from mommy and daddy.  Rooms that are quite a bit farther away.

We will say goodbye to the little room at the top of the stairs forever in just a matter of hours.  Tomorrow will be the first time you say goodbye to a place and know you will never come back.  It won't be the last. 

For now, I will take down the sampler, fold up the bedspread, and box up your tiny little clothes.  Most of me knows you probably won't remember this little room or the almost 2 years you spent in it.

But, on the off chance that you do - I hope you remember it as home.

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