Last spring, I was painting my daughter Abigail’s room a couple of shades of green. It was part of a general sprucing up of her room that would also include some moving around of furniture, a new TV and, eventually, a new desk.
I’ve painted a lot of rooms in this house since we moved in fifteen years ago. Every room and hallway at least once, and this room three times. Sand beige with blue trim in 1999. A kind of shocking pink with white trim when Abby moved into it in 2007 or so, and now green. It occurred to me that this could very well be the last time I’ll paint this room. Abby goes off to high school in September of this year.
I can remember painting her baby room in 2000, the room across the hallway we now use as a guest room. When I was painting her room, I didn’t know that her name was Abby, and I didn’t know that she was a girl. Our obstetrician knew she was a girl, but we had asked her not to tell us. I was painting the room yellow, a neutral color, with blue trim.
The baby was due in a few weeks, so we already had a lot of baby toys and a crib (yet to be assembled) and furniture and clothes. We had things that I didn’t even know what they were yet, like a Diaper Genie and a BabyBjorn. We had a musical mobile for the crib and a music maker that hung on a doorknob.
I wasn’t terrified, but I wasn’t calm either. We were having a child, and I kept telling myself, This is happening, you’re moving on, this is a thing people do, and it’s going to be okay. Though really, who knew? Maybe everything wouldn’t turn out okay and this was but a quiet prelude to unimaginable horror. My experience with children — anybody’s children — was very limited. Until then (and I was thirty-seven years old) I had never really even held any babies, due to a superstitious fear that the child might choose that one specific moment to break down or malfunction somehow and I would be guilty of the mishap by association. Continue reading