Room of My Own | A Love Story

Dearest Husband + Children,

As you know,I have hijacked claimed the laundry room— formerly known as third child’s bedroom— as my own. It’s a work in progress, but soon you will see it transformed into a 21st century Room of Her Own, complete with white wine fridge.

I believe every great space deserves a fitting name. The laundry room shall henceforth be called MOBY. Whales have been a recurring theme in my life lately, so I am christening it after my spirit animal. Also, it makes for a handy little acronym should you forget WHO and WHAT this room is for:

Mom

Only,

Bitches.

Y? All the reasons.

A few gentle but firm reminders before I officially hibernate for a few weeks hours.

Please knock before entering. This is a sacred space. I am doing important work in here and yes, that does include watching Ladies of London, thank you for asking.

It has come to my attention that there’s a little confusion about how and when you will do laundry. I find this peculiar since I can’t recall any one of you EVER worrying about clean socks prior to Moby’s arrival, but rest assured, I have devised a plan. Kindly schedule your laundry cycles around my creative and hormonal ones. Adhering to these guidelines should give you a solid few hours each month- ample time to mix darks and whites, I presume.

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, don’t ever come in here ever unless specifically invited. Ever. Seriously, it’s that simple. I adore each of you, but how about we try to miss each other a little bit? Kids, as you all get bigger, our inanimate apartment miraculously shrinks, and everywhere I go, THERE YOU ARE.

Oldest son— I will likely extend an invite to you so we can watch *Empire *and appreciate black culture together. “Bye, Felicia” will be your cue to join me.

Middle daughter— let’s pin some vegetarian recipes in here some time! (To be clear, “some time” means a specific time about which you will be notified.)

Baby boy— did you find a hilarious you tube video that you just have to show me? Can’t wait! Emphasis on wait. I’ll call you.

Husband— oh husband, I sure do love you. I might even let you in here for the occasional conjugal visit, but please understand that this room is a place for me to practice self-care and not run a 24/7 love shack, k?

Until we meet again, you know precisely where to find me; sitting at my desk, coloring in my dreamscapes coloring book for grown ups, drunk on the glory of solitude. (And I haven’t even ordered the wine fridge yet.)

Love you. Mean it.

Mom