Dear Wigleaf,

I'm writing from my home office, which, in a few months' time, will be the nursery. Looking at my feet, there's crayon marks in between the floorboards that remind me everyday that our son will not be the first child to call this room his first room. The house was built in 1929, and so, if we assume that 1) the ownership of the house transferred every 5 years, and 2) this house has always been occupied by young families with one or more children, this would mean that, at minimum, nineteen children have spent their first years in this room. A small school of fish. And that's the math on intergenerational becoming in Los Angeles, that's the reduction of early lives lived in one contained space, that's nineteen mothers who painted these walls in anticipation of the arrival of the capital "B" Baby. Me, I've picked out a crocodile painting, a floral rug, buffalo check curtains. From somewhere, nineteen mothers nod approvingly, welcoming me into the club of parents who transformed the second bedroom into a little person's maiden space. As soon as he's old enough, we'll wedge a crayon into his clammy hand, point to the streaks of color on the floor, watch him leave his mark. Lucky #20.

With love from 59th Place,
Natalie