Their Room

“Mom, can we paint my room pink? For when sissy is born?”

By pink, she means bright pink. Vibrant, saturated, in-your-face petunia pink. I draw the line, seeing if she’ll step across.

“Maybe a soft pink, honey. Like a light pink. The color of Clara’s roses. It might be hard to sleep if your room is glowing,” I say.

“I know, I know, mom. I love all the colors of pink. They are all my favorite. Maybe we can pick”– she pauses — “a lot of pinks. Like a rainbow of pinks?” When did she stop calling me mommy? Mom sounds so official. Year four is moving faster than my car.

I look back at her little face and eager blue eyes, yellow curls sneaking out from her French braids, framing her face after a long day of play. “We can paint your room pink, love. But only one color. Just one light pink color,” I say softly.

“Yay!” She answers and buries her face in her blanket, not so secretly sucking her finger, a habit I have yet to break. Emmarie’s been trying to figure out for weeks if she’ll share a room with her new sister:

“Mom, you can get one of those baskets, those Moses ones, and put it right here on my bed. See, we’ll both fit. Can you buy one? Can you?”

“Mom, she won’t fall off the bed. But we can put her little basket on the floor, right next to me, just in case.”

“Mom, I’m big now. When sissy cries, I’ll go run and get her for you.”

“Mom, she’ll be so cute in her blanket. We need to get matching blankets for nighttime.”

Four apparently makes you an expert at all things big sister.

My mind whirls as I drive. It’s not that I don’t want Emmarie to share a room with her new sister, I do. I’m just not ready. It was going to be their room– Clara and Emmarie’s. I envisioned it from the moment I found out they were going to be sisters, 18 months apart. Creamy white walls. Rose decals. Flowy sheer curtains. Touches of greenery. Cribs and then bunks. Sure, we’d just painted Emmarie’s room light yellow with hints of gray and coral, easy neutrals in case our next baby was a boy. But that “maybe he’ll be a boy” was a girl, and they were going to be sisters. This was going to be their room. Theirs. Tiny towheads sneaking into bed, talking late into the night. Giggles, fights, friendship–all of it. I wanted magic. A meadow of flowers, whispers of castles, hidden tea parties. I wanted home in four walls.

And it was, in a way. I rocked Emmarie to sleep every night while singing to Clara, whispering words I would never say to her in that room earth-side. Two days together was all we had. Clara never left the hospital. So, I told her what her room looked like. About the curtains and the view, the yellow walls we never changed. About her grandmother’s wooden rocking chair and where her crib would go. How her sister wanted to share a room and what books we’d read. About the love they shared as sisters. Yes, it was their room, and it was never their room.

I wasn’t ready. But the words had just tumbled out of my mouth like water from the faucet, with only one trajectory. I told my four-year-old we were painting her room pink; their room pink.  She didn’t know I had already unfolded and refolded her little sister’s newborn clothes in her brother’s closet. Twenty-three week, fourth child nesting at its finest. “It just makes sense for the babies to share a room,” I’d explained to my husband earlier as he hoisted the extra clothes back into the garage. “It does?” He’d asked. “Don’t you want the girls to share a room?”

“When they’re older,” I said. “When they’re older. When they can be in bunks.”

What if the answer was always when they are older?

We drive home, taking back roads and skirting traffic in the heavy five o’clock sun until we pull into Sherwin Williams. “Mommy, where are we? Is this the paint store?” an excited voice asks. “Yes, love, it is,” I reply. We get out of the car, Davey shoeless on my hip, Emmarie focused.

We walk inside. In under a minute, she’s pulled seven light pink paint chips onto a white desk. Little legs hoist a little body upwards. Emmarie is eye-to-eye with her pink rainbow. “I like this one. No, it’s too purply,” she says as she moves it aside. Hands holds up three new paint chips, then set them down. “I want this one.” Emmarie points to a creamy light pink, named Charming Pink. “Mommy, we’ll paint our room this pink.”

“Yes, we will,” I say. “We will paint your room this pink.” Three girls in four walls, separated only by heaven.