There’s something to be said about my baby Bella’s room. The books, the blocks, the crib, the loopy swirl of her name on the wall. It’s like a separate universe in our house. In Bella’s room we sit on the floor. We use our imagination. We play with stuffed animals or Barbie's. We don’t think about all that stuff on the news.
There’s a lamp on, casting a cozy glow over us as I look at
my daughter, into her wide, all-encompassing eyes. It’s where I find the
absolute best in humanity.
After a while she’ll crawl to me, bash into my chest then
slide down and bury her little head in my lap. I’ll stroke her little tuffs of
hair and her back while she murmurs softly. Then she’ll look up and say something
like, “Blah.” Her mix of ball and dog.
I say it back to her. “Ball.” She smiles, coming alive. She
crawls around, muttering to herself, pulling up on the dresser or crib as we
talk colors and shapes. We point at things that spark our interest: a book, a
shoe, the ceiling fan. Outside it might be raining, or hot, or windy or dusk, but
it doesn’t matter. Not when we’re in her room, with the lamp on, talking shop.
When I’m in Bella’s room, I’m not thinking about work, or
writing, of past failures or even worrying about Covid. I’m content to play and sing and laugh until she gets
hungry or tired or simply grows bored with me.
My little girl's room is a safe place, for her, but for me as well. It’s
where time stops and holds still in our laps—even as she’s growing so quickly. Where we wind up the music box and let its clicking melody pull us away. It’s where
bears talk, turtles fly, monkey’s dance and I can take a moment to catch my
breath.
