I love my daughter's bedroom. I'm sitting in it now as I write this while I listen to her sing in the bathtub. It's pure contentment, I tell you.
Looking around her room, I see marionettes her grammy and grandpa brought her back from India. There's a 3 1/2 foot Cinderella curtesy of her other grandparents-- a hula hoop, a Winnie the Pooh piggy bank covered in Japanese writing from a Jungle Jim's adventure, a bookshelf filled with much loved books from her Amah and others, and more dress-up clothes than I thought able to fit in a closet.
It's not the Ikea furniture or the college era futon that now serves as her bed that moves me to near tears. It is how the room evolves and continues to change filled with treasured artifacts and mementos and favorite jeans so loved they get worn two days in a row.
Hers is not the room it was when she was born nor is it the room I envisioned for my child. In fact, the first nursery that occupied my imagination belonged to my son-- my first born who died 3 weeks before his due date-- who never got to sleep in his bed, or have a favorite sweater, or chew on the board books mommy and daddy bought before his birth.
I look at her dolls and my chest tightens. I don't know if there's a word for that but it's some sort of intense appreciation for my daughter. I know her favorite color and what her voice sounds like. I know she loves to sing and hates lady bugs. I look around and see the physical evidence of her presence on the planet, and that is what brings me to tears.