A Room of My Own

The smallest bedroom in my house, the closest to the kitchen and living room, was transformed into my new office a few months ago.

All that's left of what used to be my son's nursery is the white wainscoting and white area rug. The yellow walls and hand-stamped animal border was covered with tranquil light blue paint. The crib was replaced by a new light birch desk with accessories to help keep me organized. I mounted a shelf for mine and my husband's diplomas and hung my journalism awards and pictures from our old guest bedroom, which is now my son's bedroom.

I made the space into a peaceful haven in which I can feel comfortable writing. In the months since the transformation, my lovely little office has also become the home for my son's easel, to keep it out of the living room, and other random toys -- currently, a beach ball and kick ball.

And every time I sit at my desk, since it's so close to the kitchen and living room, someone comes in here to ask me a question. Or as soon as my husband gets off the couch to use the bathroom or get his book from our bedroom, my son starts calling for me. Or I get distracted by something I hear on the TV. Or I remember something from work that I need to tell my husband.

It's a miracle sometimes that I ever get any writing done at all, but I knew what would happen when I moved my computer closer to the rest of the action in the house. It's still a room of my own even if it has a door that I (gladly) rarely ever close.