We live in a two bedroom house. We rent said two bedroom house. We inhabit the big front room and Lovely Husband has his study, which he needs for work, and the spare bed, which he doesn't, in the second. We had planned on having Dear Boy sleep in his bassinette and then his cot in our room, and we'd spent the lead-up to his birth setting up his furniture and carving out a little space for him. But, man, that boy sleeps loud. Every snort and snuffle and grunt and groan and fart and fuss and winge and whine was waking me up. So the boy now sleeps in the dining room.
The dining room had become my study. It was halfway there anyway given the walls are lined with bookshelves and almost all of our books. I had co-opted the big table for my laptop and piles of paper and would clear it off when guests came and feasts were to be had. But now it's a room of books and baby. Dear Boy's cot doesn't quite fit in the nice neat corner so it's slightly haphazardly shoved in there next to the faux-fire place, which we've covered over with pillows to muffle the sound of the wind and rain and birds chirping that finds its way down the chimney.
People have lived in smaller homes, even had multiple families jammed into a single room, but boy will I be glad when we move into a three bedroom home. When we can close a door and know he won't wake up when we put on the tv or try to cook a meal, where we won't have to worry about every creak and crack of our nightingale floors.