Mom was wrong.

We bought this house nearly 4 years ago, in summer 2006. Two bedroom townhome. We had a plan, you see. I know, I know, even then in our blissfully ignorant lives, we were tempting fate.

Buy a townhome, as it was in our low price range, and it would be easier to sell. Because there are always people like us - childfree, looking for a small place to start out in, older couples looking to scale down, etc. Then we'd move back home and into a bigger place, probably within 5 years or so. Because of course, by then, we'd likely have two kids.

Do try to hold in your laughter. I, myself, am struggling not to roll on the floor in mirth and trigger a bad coughing episode. Life really is funny in the most unexpected ways.

Anyhow, when we moved in, the second bedroom was the catch-all for odds and ends. After a few months, I began making noises about how we planned to clean it out and fix it up as a guest room. Mom told me to wait. We were still planning on trying for children that next summer, so it made sense.

When we decided to put it all off a year, I started talking about it again. Mom again advised me to wait. She was pretty much our only real overnight visitor and was content sleeping on the sofa. She said expending the money it would take - paint, outlets, drapes, a new mattress, etc (it was about this time we purchased the dresser and changer on sale, thinking they would work nicely as a dual purpose peace - my husband stores his clothing in the dresser now) - that was just wasteful. Why expend the time and money to do the room over twice? That was just silly.

So I listened to her. It stayed as it was. Filled with boxes - I did go through them at one point, but you'd never guess it now, as there are still boxes in there. Old exercise equipment I occassionally think to offer up for free on craigslist or to the Salvation Army or pretty well anyone who will take it off my hands, thanks, but haven't done it yet. My old disassembled bed. And . . . the baby stuff.

Over the years we were waiting to try and conceive, trying to conceive, pregnant (but very, very rarely when I was pregnant. In fact, just twice) we began accumulating baby gear. I never had any doubt about the wisdom of that course of action. We were going to have children, why not spread out the expenses and buy things on sale? Only gender neutral things or things I knew we would use. Including a crib. That's been sitting up there disassembled for some time now. It's filled with baby stuff. A carseat, stroller, swing, crib, changer, diapers, all my old Classic Pooh things I'd been given over the years, a mobile, Boppy, and two big boxes filled with Gabriel's clothes, bought days before his birth.

I don't go in there much, but the door is always open for the cats. It doesn't bother me much, I just have no reason to be there. I can remember going with my mom, talking about buying a crib soon, as we were shopping for my sister's baby shower - my nephew will be 3 in October - and telling her seriously about our plans. I shrugged off her comments about how I wouldn't want that stuff in my house if it took awhile to conceive or if we had a miscarriage. I said it didn't matter. I knew we would have children, one way or another. What was the harm? If we adopted, we'd have to buy it all anyway, and better now than when we were emotionally invested.

I still think that's true.

But I know a bigger truth. I shouldn't have listened to my mom in the beginning. If we hadn't had a room in which to store all that stuff, then we wouldn't have it. And we'd have a room in use, for her to sleep in when she visited.

I stood in there today, and realized for the first time that we may never be parents to a child that needs that stuff. That gorgeous crib that I just fell in love with. That nursery I planned in my mind. Those tiny little clothes I bought for my teeny little boy (thinking of how small that little newborn onesie was . . . how sadly ironic now). We may end up giving it all away. I'm beginning to come around to thinking about this. I know we are very young yet, that we still have several options, and that six cycles is not so very long. I know all these things, but a question I asked a few months ago was whether or not I could be happy never having children. My husband said he could, that he wanted children because he wanted them with me. That he could be happy with just me in the rest of his life. I said I didn't know.

I think now, I do. I can live with it. I can be happy at times. I could live a contented existence, though I'd probably always be the crazy lady who is a little too into her pets. But it's not what I want. At all. That isn't the life I want. If it happens, I do know now that I can survive it and be tolerably comfortable. But I want more than tolerable comfort.

So I'm not ready to do over the room yet. In a year, if by then I am still not pregnant, I will. It will become a functional guest room. But for now, I have to try for more.