After some very creative mental gymnastics, my wife and I have decided to rename our apartment. Now, don’t get the idea that we are some kind of silly people who had previously christened our little (but lovely) one-bedroom tenement as Howard or Hector or Hanley or Fred, and are now changing it to Marguerite or Margarita or Frederica or Susan. No, instead, henceforth, we shall refer to our (previously) one-bedroom apartment as: a convertible two-bedroom apartment.
Before Baby came, we had a wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling champagne-colored curtain professional installed in the living room to give Baby her own space. When I would tell one of the other mothers about how we altered our apartment with a curtain, a strange look would come across her face that showed she was picturing a shower rod and a plain bed sheet “divider,” and how that was all just a little sad.
Whatever. The curtain always worked fine. But lately, my wife and I have wanted to get Baby her own room (due in large part to the fact that, when told to go to her bedroom, Baby always walks into our bedroom, as it was—previously—the only “proper” bedroom in the apartment). The management company of our apartment building wouldn’t let us put in translucent sliding glass doors (so we could separate our living room without losing the light, which might otherwise make our living room a darkened hole), and we didn’t want to put up a proper wall (which would certainly block out all the light and make our living room a darkened hole), so off we went in search of a different solution.
We ultimately discovered floor-to-ceiling translucent plastic modular shelving units, custom-built (or, rather, assembled) by this very same Stay-at-Home Dad (what with all the spare time and energy I have for projects, hobbies, and other activities) that 1) gave Baby her own space, 2) didn’t rob us of the light, 3) provided nigh acres of additional storage, and 4) looked like a wall from the other side of the room. (Having trouble picturing it? Think six-foot-wide, nine-foot-tall translucent bookcases separated by a “doorway.”)
And there! Our problem was solved!
And then my wife alighted upon an idea. “I have an idea!” she said. “Given our set-up, we no longer have a one-bedroom apartment. It’s actually a convertible two-bedroom apartment!”
Well, when said out loud, especially in the world of modern-day New York City real estate, a two-bedroom apartment sounds lavish. A two-bedroom apartment sounds like you’re swimming (yea, drowning) in extra space. A two-bedroom apartment sounds downright reasonable in which to raise a child. And frankly, in your own head, when you call your home a (convertible) two-bedroom apartment, it kind of starts to make you feel a little rich.
So, now we live in a (convertible) two-bedroom apartment, one which we made all by ourselves. Naturally, we are very proud of ourselves and are continually patting each other on the back while standing in the midst of our—convertible—two-bedroom apartment.
