These days, we spend a lot of time in our playroom. A lot of time doing art. A lot of time playing make believe.

The light in our playroom is some of the best in our house – so it’s a treat to spend lazy Sunday’s lounging here.

It is a transitional room – it used to be our dining room, right off the kitchen. But with small kids around it begged to be reimagined. A seperate space to congregate toys, books, art supplies.

It’s also the perfect spot for a visiting canine to nap in the sun.

Or for the 1-year-old-in-residence to “read” a book.

This room won’t always be a play room – at times I find myself anticipating the day that we can reclaim it as an adult space. Perhaps with leather club chairs, bookshelves, and a game table for poker and 1000 piece puzzles. 

Yet in the same instant, I feel the panic of time slipping past. I know with utmost certainty that the moment I sink into that future leather club chair, I will mourn the playroom that it had been, and everything it signified: The messy, chaotic, perfectly imperfect years of raising our babies.