Fullness, Resolve and Hot Air Balloons

We stood in our new house and knew that this was the home we would raise our family in. The stars had finally aligned and the time was finally right to add a little one to our family. We were, at long last, both ready. And, this house felt right. It even had the most perfect little nursery. In fact, from the moment we laid eyes on that room, we knew that it was meant to be our baby's room. It wouldn't be long until that cozy, beautiful, joyous room was filled with the cries and laughter of baby.

Month after month, the room lost more and more of its beauty, its joy, the coziness that a baby would have brought. Instead, it slowly became cold, empty and taunting. We stopped calling it "the nursery" and referred to it as "the purple room." We decided that it might be less painful if it were less empty, so we started storing some things that that might otherwise have found their way to the attic. That made it less empty, but nothing more. It still silently taunted us.
On the day that we got the toughest news of our journey so far, I decided that it was time to take a stand. I could no longer take the silent taunting. There was that voice from somewhere in my head, that the nursery seemed to symbolize, that said we wouldn't be parents and this would never be a nursery. It was time to find a symbol of my own. I would, in my own quieter way, stand on the rooftops and proclaim to the Heavens that this would still, one day, someday soon, be a nursery.

My next act required nothing less than the effort of climbing to the rooftop...a trip to the children's department at Ikea....to buy a crib mobile. There were many things about this that seemed crazy. How weird it is to buy a crib mobile for a room without a baby, much less a crib.

And yet, this symbolic act, on this toughest day, was so powerful for me. I chocked back tears as I walked through the cribs, stuffed animals, changing tables and high chairs. But, I got all the way to the checkout line and then all the way home without tears, without a breakdown. It was all so raw, in the wake of our first bad news, that I had yet to be able to cry. I had yet to mourn the loss of our chance at a natural conception.

I got home and was grateful to find that I had the house to myself. I paused at the door to the nursery, mobile in hand, and took a shielding breath. I didn't bother doing anything special to hang it. Why did it matter where it hung if there was no crib to hang it over? I found a random nail the old owner's had left in the wall and hung in there.

As soon as it was hung, I fell in a heap on the floor and cried. For the first time, I cried about the emptiness, the stillness, the left-behind feeling, the loss of "conception by romantic evening," and, mostly, the unknown. I sobbed. And then, when I had cried all I could cry, there was nothing left but resolve. I said, aloud to this empty room--to the baby that will someday, somehow call it home--that we would not give up until our baby, from whatever path was necessary, found its way here.



The nursery still serves as a halfway point to the attic, rather than a haven for baby. It is still absent the sounds of babies' laughter or tears. But, it taunts me less than before. Mot days, it's less of a cruel reminder and more of a source of determination. Most days, I smile at the dreams my mobile represents, rather than cry at the empty room. This lone baby item, my hot air balloon crib mobile, is a silent reminder of what will be. In many ways, that room is filled will our hopes and dreams and everything we want for our family.

As it turns out, our nursery isn't quite as empty as it once seemed.
_________________________
This post is brought to you by Geohde's Great Cross-Pollination. Can you guess the author? You can find my Cross-Pollination post for today at Lin's blog, Our Someday Family.