Interior Redecorating

At almost eighteen months, my son is practically running — belly first, arms flailing, panting with motivation as he gains frightening momentum — running. His body matches the speed of his giddy excitement as he yells, “GO!” down each hall. The days of being confined to the playpen are behind us. He has a world to explore.

“Where ya goin, buddy?!”

One would think that, at these speeds, he couldn’t take a look around. You’d be wrong. Nothing stops his curious, wandering eye from taking it all in, which means he’s looking everywhere — except where he’s going.

Wincing at every turn and lunging my hand in front of him, I act as his headlights, mirrors, and sometimes airbag as he speeds around our home. Watching him discover our home, I realize I could sort nearly everything into two eras: before baby and after. But to him, it’s all new.

I used to choose items based on taste, aesthetics, individuality, or the minimal adulthood experience under my belt. I often didn’t even have a plan for whatever was in my cart by the time I got to the checkout. If anyone asked me what my plan was for my new treasure, I’d reply with complete trust in the process, “It’ll find its place.”

After bringing home that new piece that would tie the place together, I’d realize it didn’t quite fit the way I imagined. So, I try a few things — cram it here, stuff it there, tell myself it’ll work as a side table instead of a storage cart. At some point, I’d settle in contentment with wherever the item landed–in the corner somewhere, untouched for months, often forgotten, waiting to find its place.

They weren’t necessarily where they belonged.

Just where they happened to be.

There is a big orange chair that was meant for my writing desk. I chose it because it’d be big enough to be a reading nook on its own, but, as time would show, it was way too big for a desk. So, it became a bus stop in the corner of our bedroom for clothes waiting to be put away.

Back when I still lived with my family, I impulsively bought a colored, embroidered ottoman pouf that I dreamed would become a statement piece in the living room of my future home. However, when that time came, the previous owners left us most of the barely-used furniture. An incredible win, but it didn’t offer a sensible place for my pouf.

On our wedding registry, I asked for two tall woven baskets thinking I could keep blankets in them for guests to pull from. They ended up holding seasonal throw pillows that only made appearances certain times in the year. Otherwise, they were hidden in the corner of the guest room closet.

Forever a child-at-heart, by mid-to-late twenties I was still happily adopting plush stuffed animals. Among them was a soft yellow dinosaur I got in Chinatown named Geraldo, a tiny purple pterodactyl named Pteter, a giant round Grogu I still called Yoda, and a llama-shaped ricebag named Llewellyn — naming them is my favorite part. There was always room in my heart for more, but this wasn’t the case in our home. They would just sit — on the shelf, on the couch, or on the corner of the bed, just collecting dust or getting buried in other things.

“They’ll find their place.” I’d tell myself, with my trust in the process a bit shaken.

Then, we brought our son home.

Suddenly, the orange chair in the corner wasn’t a bus stop anymore–it was the center of my world during some of the most wonderful and the hardest moments of my life. I nursed my son there throughout the night. It was where I would plop down after what felt like hours of rocking and bouncing and swaying. It was where I would sit still, with a finally sleeping baby in my arms, because I was so afraid of waking him. My highest of highs and my lowest of lows during postpartum were spent in it. In the months that followed, that orange chair was big enough to hold the first year of my son’s life — and my first year of becoming a mother.

Months later, my son began to crawl and seemed to seek out obstacles. He was trying to pull himself up on things and crashland quickly onto them. After an incident that involved a dive-bombed wooden block, we decided we needed something soft in the playpen just big and wide enough for him to navigate without being dangerous — my pouf. We wrapped it with a sheet to keep him from eating the tassels on the side, and it became the very center of the playpen that occupied our living room. The perfect hill to climb and a safe place to land.

The playpen needed something tall enough to hold the walls, but not so heavy that it would hurt our baby if it fell. The two woven baskets from our wedding, now filled with baby blankets and stuffies, anchor the walls, allowing our son to play with complete abandon.

And my plush stuffies? They found their newest friend. They surround my son on good days and hard ones alike. He sits on the giant Yoda while he drinks his bottle before bed and roars at the dinosaurs as though they’re roaring back. By bedtime, they’re scattered across the floor beside him, as though they all want to rally and play well past bedtime.

One by one, these items found more than a place.

They found a purpose.

They all became part of the village it takes to raise a child.

Looking around our home now, I realize that none of these things became what I originally intended them to be. The chair never became my writing chair. The pouf’s colorful embroidery never became the statement piece of the living room. The baskets weren’t for guest blankets. The stuffed animals couldn’t remain decorations.

Instead, they became what our family needed them to be.

I thought they were all looking for a place.

Turns out they were waiting for a purpose.

It’s true what they say. Everything changes when you have a baby. Not just schedules, routines, or how your home is laid out, but the meaning and role of every person and piece in your life. It’s as though they all conspire together to help you raise this new little life.

I thought I was nesting and changing our home to make room for our son. But as I watch him race through these halls, touching the things that changed because of him, I wonder if the house was simply reflecting what was happening within me.

And somewhere between midnight feedings, playpens, baby blankets, and stuffed dinosaurs, I stopped wondering whether any of us had found our place.

“Where ya going, buddy?!” His father will playfully ask, knowing full well our toddler doesn’t know either. None of us do.

“He’ll find his way,” I think to myself with a smile.

Then, right on cue, I hear little feet running and an excited voice yell, “GO!” as he runs into his father’s arms.

I’d say, yes.

We all have.