As I sit and type this, I am home alone right now.
As in, no one else is here.
The silence is deafening. And I'm not quite sure what to do with myself.
Brian took today off of work since he is flying out tonight for a bachelor party in New Orleans. He and the Bear headed off to baby gymnastics, since he had never been, leaving me home to sit and think. And listen to my quiet house.
There is no breathing on the monitor. No one shaking toys or rattles or babbling on the rug. There is no sound at all, except the hum of the computer.
I'll admit, I'm a little creeped out. After all, I haven't had the house to myself since, well, probably the bed rest days. Which seriously feel like several lifetimes ago. Gosh, the days when I just laid on the couch, eating brownies and blogging about the Bachelor. I guess you could say I still do that now (although I'm trying to cut out the brownies), it's just squished in between diapering, feeding, playing, and loving on a little Bear. And a really great husband.
I admit, I'm going to miss this house. In that typical fashion where you suddenly love the thing that you most detested because you are leaving it for something bigger and better, I've found myself getting a little sentimental. I mean, this is the house that we came home to the night Brian proposed. It was my birthday, and in between calling friends and family to share the good news, I remember opening my Kitchen-Aid mixer that my grandma had sent. Emma, curious as ever, stretched the length of the box and darn near tried to crawl in.
My grandma died in January 2007. Emma passed away in 2009. I miss them both terribly.
Our kitchen was home to my numerous protein shakes consumed before our wedding. (now, it mainly houses ginger cookies and a bottle or two of good red wine). Our master bathroom was the place where I first saw two pink lines - and then promptly ran into the bed room to inspect the test in the sunlight. Then I took a picture of it and analyzed it on the digital camera. Then I cried. And then I called Brian.
(who, of course, did not answer his phone).
And if you walked a little further down the hallway, you'd find the room that Scotty lives in. If walls could talk. Probably my most salient memory of that room is the night we came home from the NICU right after he was hospitalized -- it was completely silent. And I remember wanting to tear my hair out. I was so exhausted on the way home that I had fallen asleep in the car (it was after 2am when we finally got home) and instead of crashing, my brain started racing when I walked into the nursery that night. The sheer terror of everything we had experienced over the last 12 hours came slamming into my conscious, and the reality of our situation hit me. We could lose the Bear.
Instead of pulling my hair out, I did the next best thing: I deconstructed one of the floral arrangements we had been sent. (I'm fidgety, I know). I took a single white rose out of the bouquet and laid it on the table near the glider. Over the next four days, it slowly dried but never lost its original shape. When little Scotty finally joined us at home again, I tucked the rose in his memory box as a reminder to myself to never, ever, ever take anything for granted. Ever.
And finally, the last room in the hall on the right is our guest bedroom. This room has welcomed my parents, my sister and her husband, friends from all over the country, and my personal favorite, my friend Jen (mom to Rowan) who, while normally mild mannered, managed to yak twice in one rather raucous Vegas weekend as a result of alcohol consumption. I remember her vomiting in the toilet saying, "I think I'm pregnant!" while I shook my head and said, "No, Jen, you just drank too much."
(she is going to kill me for publicly sharing this story on the interwebs. Sorry, Jenna.)
So while the house sits quietly and I reflect, I can't help but wonder what the new house will bring...Scotty becoming mobile, that's a given. Maybe baby #2? (after we've passed the sandwich rule, of course. And for new readers, the sandwich rule is "we can have another baby when the current baby is able to accurately make himself a sandwich. And perhaps one for me as well.") Will our three-car garage ever actually hold three cars? (Brian is insistent that Scotty will have a car when he turns 16; I'm old-school and think he should wait. Until he's 31.) I'm envisioning a little vegetable garden in the backyard, maybe a swing set, but above all, a family that is happy and ready to settle in for the long haul.