The other day I came home to learn that my husband had put the remaining baby things away, the ones I couldn’t bring myself to touch: the clothes, the changing table, the blankets, and care items.
He was worried I’d be mad at him for doing it. I’m not. It was rather cramped in our bedroom, and I’d been thinking it was time to go through everything anyway. It has been almost six months since Michael died, and I am not currently expecting another child. Those things were cluttering up our room with no purpose. They were like the proverbial elephant: covered up by a blanket J had put over them that first day back to spare us the tears and sorrow of looking at them, but they were still there. It was time to put them in storage, and a part of me is grateful for the fact that he did it, as I am uncertain as to whether I could have handled it without emotional drama.
And yet, it feels like we’re giving up.
Strange as it sounds, by packing all of Michael’s things away, it feels like an unsaid admission that being parents may not be in our future. A tacit expectation that there will be no more dreams.
It is utterly silly, because Michael’s things are not gone. They’re just in storage.
But it feels a bit like giving up. Like that moment in all of our lives when we are asked to put aside childish dreams and notions and grow up.
I am not sure how I feel. I think I should feel sad and upset, maybe even angry like J expected, but I just can’t quite muster it. I am so numb about the entire thing, like I’ve got nothing left to feel about the matter. Maybe that’s a good sign? Maybe that means I am finally ready to let go?