The Empty Bedroom

Here's the current score:
Bedroom 1: ours
Bedroom 2: guest room
Bedroom 3 (a tiny sucker): sewing room (i.e., room where I keep my grandmother's sewing machine that I swear I'm going to learn how to use)
Bedroom 4: empty

A couple of months ago, we decided to do the adult thing and buy real bedroom furniture for our master bedroom (my mother dubbed our current cobbled together furniture from my childhood as "worse than dorm furniture"). The furniture's being delivered this Thursday. Because my husband left before sunrise today for a week-long business trip and I'm incapable of clearing the bedroom myself, yesterday we moved everything out of the master . . . and into the empty bedroom.

I'm sensitive about the empty bedroom. My husband and I never talk about it being the baby's room--I think it's just too painful to say. But I become uber-bitch if he puts something in there. "This room isn't for storage!" I yell. Even though we rarely go in there, I vacuum the carpet of the empty room each week as I vacuum the rest of the house. I want to keep the room nice, ready.

At around 7:30 this morning, my dog shook away sleep, her tags clanking me awake. Lying in bed in the (not so) empty bedroom, I could see the tops of trees out the window. The room, which faces the front of our house, was filled with a warm sunlight. Before I could stop myself thinking something happy, I thought about how lovely it would be for a child to wake up in this bedroom.

For the next four nights, my dog (who is currently walking in circles on a blanket, trying to shape it into some sort of mound) and I will sleep in the empty bedroom. It should be fine, uneventful. And, what's that work that evades me? Oh, hopeful.