I'm writing this from a new couch in my living room—everything in here feels new. We moved the bookshelves from the office to the wall around the TV; the TV is on a new stand, under new shelves; we have a new kitchen table and I have a new tiny desk, in the nook where our old kitchen table used to be, between the new couch, which is bigger and cheaper than the old one, and the kitchen, which is really, because this is Brooklyn, a slightly partitioned corner of the living room. There's also, of course, from left to right from where I am sitting, a bouncer, a recliner, a play mat, a bassinet, a stroller, an empty bottle, a discarded bib, and a baby monitor. It shows me the baby wrapped up like a pea pod, sleeping in the bassinet next to my bed, in what is ostensibly my bedroom but, with two layers of black-out shades and the smell of formula (in our case, distinctly wet potatoes) and a sleeping baby in there 14-18 hours a day, doesn't feel like my bedroom at all. We call it "the dark room." I've taken to keeping my clothes in the crib that the baby doesn't sleep in yet, in the nursery that used to be my office, but which right now is mainly used for diaper changes, my at-home new-mom video workouts—the new rug being exactly the length of my yoga mat—and the sporadic work calls that new parents still somehow manage to take. I still slip and call it "the office" sometimes, but I've taken those work calls sitting on the floor with my back against the baby's dresser. I tried to take a work call at my new little desk in the living room, but my voice kept the baby—all the way in the dark room—awake.
new rooms
new rooms
new rooms
I'm writing this from a new couch in my living room—everything in here feels new. We moved the bookshelves from the office to the wall around the TV; the TV is on a new stand, under new shelves; we have a new kitchen table and I have a new tiny desk, in the nook where our old kitchen table used to be, between the new couch, which is bigger and cheaper than the old one, and the kitchen, which is really, because this is Brooklyn, a slightly partitioned corner of the living room. There's also, of course, from left to right from where I am sitting, a bouncer, a recliner, a play mat, a bassinet, a stroller, an empty bottle, a discarded bib, and a baby monitor. It shows me the baby wrapped up like a pea pod, sleeping in the bassinet next to my bed, in what is ostensibly my bedroom but, with two layers of black-out shades and the smell of formula (in our case, distinctly wet potatoes) and a sleeping baby in there 14-18 hours a day, doesn't feel like my bedroom at all. We call it "the dark room." I've taken to keeping my clothes in the crib that the baby doesn't sleep in yet, in the nursery that used to be my office, but which right now is mainly used for diaper changes, my at-home new-mom video workouts—the new rug being exactly the length of my yoga mat—and the sporadic work calls that new parents still somehow manage to take. I still slip and call it "the office" sometimes, but I've taken those work calls sitting on the floor with my back against the baby's dresser. I tried to take a work call at my new little desk in the living room, but my voice kept the baby—all the way in the dark room—awake.