In an effort to rid my house of the ants that seem to be taking over lately, I vow to myself that I am going to vacuum the whole house today. I was determined to suck up those sons of a bitches!
I finish the downstairs and head upstairs to the second part of the battle. Yep! Ants upstairs too. Upstairs is done, then I came to the last room at the end of the hallway. I was faced with the door that has rarely been opened for the past 11 months. The door that sheltered the shattered dreams and hopes for my little boy.
With vacuum in hand, I placed my hand on the doorknob, took a deep breath and opened it. Immediately, my breath is taken away (literately) by the rush of dreams that were supposed to be. I kept my head down and tried to focus on the carpet and the task at hand. Yeah, that didn't last for long. I quickly was being suffocated by the overwhelming should haves, dreams, and flashbacks. I am sobbing while I vigorously push the demon vacuum back and forth. I continue until my tears are blinding me from what I was in there to do.
I find myself slumping over his crib filled with his clothes that have been scattered about after my husband and I angrily looked for something to bury our only son in. I held a onesie that said "mommies little man" on it and cried. I wanted to see him in that onesie so bad. I wanted him to be in that outfit. I wanted to hold it and smell him. Instead I smell my detergent never tainted by the fragrant smell of a newborn. I shuffled through other clothes that I remember thinking, I can't wait to see him in this.
A onesie that said Handsome just like daddy,
Daddy's little monster...
Clothes filled with dreams and hopes for a future that was never going to be.
I began going through parts of his bedroom. I was ready for him. I was ready for there to be a newborn baby boy entering my family within weeks from when I diligently fixed and prepared the perfect space for him. I couldn't have been more prepared to bring home a baby alive.
I see the bouncy on the floor in the corner that is falling apart. I am swarmed by the memory of trying to put it together with Michalina the week before I gave birth to Sam. I remembered her and I put it together with the certainty that her little brother was going to be in it shortly. I remember how excited she was to help me and how it didn't matter to her that we goofed up and had to tackle it again to make sure we put it together the right way.
And there it sits, still half way put together. Frustration of a very pregnant mother written all over it. Failure, it says, laughing and mocking me.
I have been toy with the idea of opening his door for about a week now. I don't know why, but I have been wanting to go in his room lately. Today I just felt that I had a purpose that was not driven by curiosity of grief and sadness. It found me, still managing to wrestle me to the ground. In tears on the floor of my son's bedroom.
I close the door and whisper, Mommy loves you Sam. I miss you so much. I'm sorry, I wanted to protect you. I love you. I love you.