I was getting ready to take the dogs on a walk yesterday afternoon, when I noticed one of them, Foxy, was nowhere to be found. "Foxy!" I called, "come here, let's go for a WALK!" I expected she'd some running at the mention of the word, but nope. "Come on, Fox!" I tried again. Nothing. I checked the living room. No Fox. I checked the basement. No Fox. I ran upstairs and looked in the bedroom. No Fox. No Fox in the bathroom either. Then I noticed the door to your nursery wasn't entirely closed. "Crap," I muttered. "Fox, come out here, please," I pleaded. If you know Foxy, then you probably already know she didn't comply with my request (most stubborn little dog in the world, I tell you). I peeked in and sure enough, there she was, tail wagging, butt in the air, in the middle of the light pink rug we picked out for you. I took a deep breathe, opened the door, and walked in.
The air in that room is thick. Like actually, physically thick. Thick with memories and sadness and broken dreams. The air in that room is so thick it is actually hard to breathe. It's suffocating.
Once I was in the room, I wanted to turn around and get out, but I couldn't. I stood there, just staring at everything. Everything was exactly how we left it. Nothing had been touched. The crib and changing table that Dad had put together, just five days before you died, were still against the wall, the hammer he used to assemble them, still laying on the floor. The curtains Grandma was going to help me hem, still neatly folded by the window. The bedding we picked out and argued over at Ikea, just three days before you died, still draped over the side of your crib. The wall hooks I loved so much, still on the carpet, waiting to be hung. The books we were so excited to read to you, still in a box labeled, "Stevie's room," waiting to be organized and placed on the new bookshelf, which was still half-assembled on the other side of the room. The walls, still a stark white because we hadn't yet decided on the perfect shade of green to paint them. All your clothes and blankets and bibs and rattles and baby-carriers and stuffed animals and packs of diapers and diaper bags and polka-dotted socks, still spread out on floor, where I had sat and went through them all, with the biggest smile on my face, the day before you died.
That room, your nursery, is such a haunting, heartbreaking image of how our lives, our dreams, were disrupted. We were in the process of transforming that plain little room into a beautiful nursery, fit for our beautiful little girl, but we never quite got there. Kind of like how we were in the process of being transformed ourselves, from "Kristin and Andy" to "Mommy and Daddy." Our plain little lives were becoming exciting and new and beautiful, but we never quite got there. Your nursery is in limbo, and so are we.
I never ended up taking the dogs on their walk yesterday. Instead, I laid on the floor of your nursery, curled up into a ball, clutched a pile of your little outfits to my chest, and cried my eyes out.
I'm not sure what we'll do with that room. I know it can't stay a half-finished nursery forever. But I don't think I'm ready to disturb it just yet.
God, I miss you so, so much, Baby girl.
2 hours ago