I can be anywhere, doing anything when it strikes. The pang. It’s less, “He’s gone,” now than, “He was here.”
We’re moving at the end of the week. It is also the second anniversary of when we conceived Natan. We were done with our various research-driven separations, and I looked forward-cautiously, tentatively-to a straightforward year of dissertating, job searching, and hopefully parenthood. We were staying with a friend, celebrating that and having a fabulous night out together with an obviously happy conclusion.
We know how that ended.
What does this have to do with the move? The last time we moved I was 6 weeks along with Natan and fearing another miscarriage. I remember my parents brought some of the (silly) purchases I’d made upon learning I was pregnant the first time. I made them take them back to their basement. Some of those objects are in our basement now. Baby Man has used and grown out of them already. They remind me as much of him as of my earlier fears.
This place is full of reminders. Sunday, upon packing a cupboard in which we stored extra stemware, I found sample bottles I must have shoved away out of fear when we registered. I think there are some free newborn diapers skulking somewhere as well. It’s not just those things. It’s the window blinds our cat broke just minutes before I felt the blood that heralded Natan’s early arrival. The bathtub I sat in while JJ helped me clean off after getting home from the hospital. The closet door in the bedroom I stared at in misery in the days afterwards. The staples in the ceiling I obsessed over during bedrest (but never did anything about).
I am relieved in a way, to be moving on. To be leaving these things behind. But I don’t know yet, what will happen when we lock the door and move out for good.