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I am going home. I, alone. Sadly, my infant son will stay. His father will come and they very much need the time without mom in the room distracting him. It has been too long since they lived together.

This morning I read “The spiritual practice of decorating a nursery,” and it strikes me. Yes, I remember the power of preparing the changing table baskets for Peter, unfolding the tiny onesies that my older son wore as an infant. They were awe-inspiring moments as they caused me to reflect, anticipate and pray for the baby who was to come. I do not remember heartache in those moments.

Yesterday, as I met with my counselor, we talked about imperfect perfect moments. I said the moments at home were perfect and then brought up how even in those days at home, those beautiful 5 days (the last was one of worry and the Emergency Department)…even in those beautiful five days, I worried. When I unpacked those onesies, I probably worried too.

When I arrive home, I apply my hand to our home. I gradually clean and organize. I am my husband’s motivation for doing his duty around the home, so there is a bit more that needs doing when I return. I do not mind, so long as there are no surprises!

And I redecorate. I either move furniture or paint a piece of furniture or hang a picture. I decide it will be autumn in August, and rightly so because now when I return it will be September. I have an unfinished project I want to finish this weekend. Just a final topcoat on a custom-mix painted dresser…in the nursery.

It is the nursery because there is a crib in there…because we do not allow the children to call it their own. That’s all. There is also an antique double bed that I love (Art Nouveau,so hard to find!). The older children take turns sleeping there based on what we think will make the “kids’ room” the quietest. The kids’ room is where I turn a blind eye. I ignore how messy it is. I have no expectations. I have made it almost entirely neutral with some references to sky and sea.

But the nursery…that is my playground. A coral wall, deep orange curtains with a modern white floral motif. Reclaimed wood painted coral cut and hung as arrows. The Scream. The antique bed. A light blue chalk painted desk fixed up from the side of the road. Loud, palm, Miami inspired bedding. It is not pale blues and pinks to reference the gender of our children. It is my space, the room where we do not allow toys, where I do not keep my husband’s taste in mind for decorating (yet, he likes it).

Every room we touch can be an act of love. I work to make this room and that room beautiful for my family to enjoy. I put my heart into my home. It is my art. And what a welcome we receive when going home.

I do not want to look back at yesterday. Yesterday was a bundle of anxiety and last night—a bundle of restless legs and my body rejecting the mattress and therefore little sleep. But tomorrow…tomorrow…I go home. Only for two nights, but does it matter? No, it does not!

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