First Year, First Home

My commute takes me past my first apartment every day. There's no reason to stop or slow down on that stretch of road, but I almost always acknowledge the windows to my first years of marriage and motherhood on my way by. 

We signed our contract with Lois, the rental manager, in her ground-level office. After she assessed our character and worth, we set up our hand-me-down furniture in December of 1996 with a baby on the way. On the first floor, we had two bedrooms with parquet floors, a kitchen with an apartment-sized stove, a dining room that fit a circular table, and a living room that overlooked the quiet street. On the opposite side, ambulances took a straightaway to the hospital. On Sundays, we carried in leftovers from my parents'. Next door, a newlywed couple watched my expanding belly with awe and a little distance. 

This is where we brought our baby boy after his birth on May 2. It's where we set up a crib with bumpers, a mobile, and a rocking chair. It's where we took turns resting our hands on his little back until he fell asleep. When Rob's work kept him after the dinner hour, I'd run the bath routine that included pjs and a bundled-up night walk under the glow of street lights, his head fluffy and golden after a shampoo. 

Months later, the same sweet baby was crawling up three sets of stairs in our building for morning, noon, and evening exercise. We kept company with a woman in the courtyard who fed peanuts to the squirrels from her cardigan pockets. He would ride in my backpack on laundry days, one level below. We'd travel by stroller and crosswalk to the playground across the busy street. A longer journey took us further into the woods, where a creek twisted alongside us. In his high chair later, he tasted peas and carrots, then noodles and rice. Morning outings made naptime easy. His head would nod, and I'd carry him back to bed for a mid-day rest.

This was the first of two years in our cozy home.