The Life of A Hallway

I am conflicted. As I walk up the short flight of steps to our small condo, nestled between two other little abodes, I am conflicted. I long for more space, for a yard to call our own, for a bathroom that does not double as a bike rack, for children’s bedrooms that aren’t constantly explode with toys when the door is opened.

And yet, it is our home.

It’s the place where my mate and I painted, hung light fixtures and purchased items to make it our own. The place where we started and completed our family.  The place that has been accumulated memories for many years. Eventually, when we pack our belongings and move to a new house, it will be bitter sweet.

One of the spaces that I will miss is our hallway. It’s a short hallway that connects our living room to our bedrooms. On one wall there is an 8x10 photo of my baby and toddler, their cute little toes peeking out at me. As the children have grown we’ve added a simple wood-framed bulletin board that overflows with art work and special papers from school. At Christmas we take down all the clutter and transform the board into a construction paper nativity scene. Each day we add a laminated figure to the setting, impatiently counting down the days until December 25^th. When I remember, there is a little treat, in the present box hanging next to Bethlehem. More often than not the boys have to remind me to add the surprise, thus losing the mystery of how these gifts arrive each morning.

At the end of the hall is a mirror, a kind and loving mirror. When we moved it from our last home, something happened, and now it has a slight bow that causes the image (me) to look thinner than reality. It’s a beautiful gift to my ego. Everyone should have such a mirror. Now-a-days the bottom half is forever covered in small handprints, as it is a common place of entertainment.

Most nights, as I travel to bed, I stop to pick up random toys that never quite made it anywhere. Masks that have been discarded for a better costume, Nerf darts that were used for the impromptu attack, teeny-tiny Legos that hide in the corners of the carpet, and socks that lost their way on the trip to the hamper.




 

 When Greyden was a baby the hallway was a bedroom. Each night we would wheel his little bassinet from our room to the hall. His baby noises kept me from sleep, and I just couldn’t bring myself to put my fragile infant in the ginormous crib in his bedroom. Last summer it became a climbing wall, as Zak learned he could shimmy himself to the ceiling and back. Over the weekend (instead of playing in the warm sunshine) we threw an orange and black foam football up and down the hallway. Our time together was marked by shouts of congratulation for the perfect spiral or effortless catch. Daddy “horse” has galloped many miles, down this hall, with young cowboys on his back.

 It’s amazing how memories can settle into the most mundane spaces, like a hallway. Even with these precious memories, I still dream of more space. I wonder what memories our new hallway will hold. Will my boys plunk themselves down on the floor as they nervously call and ask a sweetheart for a date? How often will our teenagers sneak out after curfew, paying close attention to the squeak on the third floorboard?  Will they stop to adjust their tie in the mirror before venturing off to their first prom? How many tears will I cry as I watch them pack for college and take their final box to the car?

And so, I am conflicted. I dream of more space, but wonder if I’m truly ready to say good-bye.