He won’t remember this house.
The room where each of my children have slept, he being the last. With the map of the Hundred Acre wood and small Winnie the Pooh illustrations. The tiny room where there is only space for the crib and a dresser. The crib my sister and I slept in as babies and the dresser my father made for us. The tiny living room where all three of them learned to crawl, cruise and walk.
I wonder if he’ll learn to walk before we move, or after. Part of me hopes after. Because as much as I’m so looking forward to our new home, all those memories of the first will be left behind here. So it would be nice if one of those big milestones was in our new home.
He’s the last little one to be born to this house, and mostly to this family. It feels like a fitting time, in many ways, to find a new place, for the new life in the post baby years. Maybe I’ll feel a little less sad about it when he’s truly not my baby anymore.
