I feel a jarring peace in seeing my son sleep well by the window inside the room that used to burst with memories. This attic bedroom, now my sister’s craft studio, witnessed years of pre-teen & teenage pain, confusion, fumbling horrible sex, great sex, fights, chicken-scratched poetry, outfits creating a combination of the person I felt like that day and wanted to be to the outside world.
I wake up today to my son a little confused about where he is, soothed as soon as I sing “Once Upon a Dream” and pick him up. I nurse this 14 lb bundle of potential in a corner bed where only seven months ago a pregnant me felt uncomfortable, too old to be sleeping in the same room where Smashing Pumpkins and Suzanne Vega would sing my teenager self to bed.
I lay him down for an early morning nap before a week of meeting new family, and I stare out the window that captures how I always felt growing up:
A perfectly fine dead end street.
A horizon of possibility in the distance.
A wide open sunrisen sky.
I’ve never felt as comfortable being in the house where I grew up as now, sharing my history and #family with my 14.5 week old son.