I Ain't No {Step}Mother Theresa

Mr. Right and I had a brief discussion last night about how we’ll fit his stuff into my house when he moves in, a conversation inspired by the new bed that was just last night installed in my guest room. I voted that he sell everything he owns…he gave me The Look and stated that his toolbox will be going in the front hall closet. Which may have you thinking, well, the toolbox can’t be that big if it will fit in the front hall closet, right?

Wrong. This thing is massive. About ten years ago, Mr. Right left the military for a few years to start his apprenticeship as a Heavy Duty Mechanic and he has all the tools to show for it. Tens of thousands of dollars worth of tools that he never uses. In an enormous toolbox that cost a few thousand dollars. OK, that’s cool. I have a room in my house that has floor to ceiling stacks of boxes full of books that I still haven’t unpacked because I can barely walk through the doorway to figure out how I’m going to fit my office desk in with a ton of bookshelves. But man, I had plans for that closet, which is actually more of a small room. I wanted to put a half-bath in there eventually; my townhouse is not huge, it’s a three bedroom with a little over 1000 sq feet and no basement, and has only one full bathroom on the second floor. At one point I had Mr. Right, his son, my sister and brother-in-law and my twin nieces all scrambling to be the first one in the john. But come May, that nice big front hall closet will be the home of a shiny red dust collector.

Which is OK. My books, his toolbox. Fair. In the end he’ll be losing more of his stuff then I will – he’s already said that his furniture won’t be coming with him (I have a beautiful leather couch and rattan rocking chair, and a nice dining table) and he’s going to have to get rid of his big screen TV (since mine is the fancy new model that does everything except cook breakfast). His bed may replace mine; it’s a wonderfully masculine four-post bed frame in dark wood that will look great in the master bedroom. His washer/dryer go, mine stay (they’re also newer and better lol). Kitchen items will be assessed during packing, as will linens and the like. Shouldn’t be a big deal.

Except for one thing that I’m a little ashamed to admit bothers me. Mr. Right and I have been in serious discussion about living together for the past 2 months or so, and one of his requirements (I almost wrote ‘demands’ at first) is that his son has his own room.

Yes, I get it. Hell, during the few years that I sporadically saw my father after my parents divorced, I had to sleep on his couch. Or he’d fall asleep on his couch with a beer in hand, empties littered around him, and I’d crawl into his bed for the night. Was I forever scarred from it? Nope. But I can remember being 16 and asking my Dad why I didn’t have my own bed at his house, listening to the promises of my own space that he never came through on, feeling like he just didn’t give a shit about me. So yes, I think that his son is entitled to a room wherever Mr. Right lives.

*Insert a mini-me in this picture*

But here’s the thing: I have a five-year mortgage on my house. I have three bedrooms, one of which I’ve dedicated as an office/library that will, hopefully in the near future, be home to a company that a friend and I are looking to partner in. When I bought the house, one of the main drawbacks was the lack of a basement; that was offset by the fact that it had been fully renovated and I’d have to put zero money into upgrades. I had, in my mind, a plan for how I would use the space: master bedroom for the obvious. Second bedroom for my office/library, and the third bedroom would start as the guest room and become a nursery within the next 2 years. Mr. Right or no Mr. Right, that was my plan for the third bedroom. And yes, eventually I hoped that the office/library would be converted into a second nursery, that the children that Mr. Right and I create will sleep cozy in their bedrooms on either side of me. 

Instead, bedroom #3 will become a room that is only used 2 nights of the week. And for the most part I’m OK with that…what bothers me is that I won’t have that room if (when?) Mr. Right and I have a child together. Like I’d planned. And I will have to sacrifice this for a child who isn’t mine. It would be different if his son lived with us full time…but he doesn’t. Our children will. Where is the fairness in that??

I realize that those thoughts are selfish and unkind of me, and I’m probably also jumping the gun here. I’m not perfect – I’m not a paragon of virtuous thoughts or Mother Theresa who can give the world everything she is. I’m an occasionally bitchy, picky, anal, sometimes-selfish woman who wants to have a home with rooms for my own children. 7 days of the week. And yes, the prospect of having Mr. Right and his son living with me is cause for the occasional twinge of nervousness. So I forgive myself if, every once in a while, these thoughts cross my mind and I have to suppress them and paste a smile on my face and say ‘Yes babe, I agree he should have his own room wherever you live’. Because if it’s OK for his toolbox to sit in the front closet, then how on earth can it not be OK for his son to have a room in his Dad’s house? Because I’m the adult, and I wouldn’t want any child to feel like I did those weekends I spent with my father.

We’ve got 6 months to figure it all out, and I’ve got 6 months to let go of these silly plans and get over myself. 6 months to get used to the idea of Mr. Right officially moving in with me, and of his son living in the house I own 8 days of the month. 

Whew. Thank gawd I never joined a nunnery!