The Empty Room

There is an empty room in my house. Ok, so it’s not exactly empty.  It’s the room my husband conceived and created on his own when he lived in our condo by himself. The walls are a dark blue. The décor is composed of primary colors. The visages that stare out from the border lining the walls are those of…superheroes. Yes, we have a superhero room in our house. Captain America, Spiderman and Batman grace this room with their presence. For now. Someday, this room will be our baby room. And because of that, the room is empty.

This room is a holding pen, literally and figuratively. It’s the room we use for storage-Christmas decorations, craft supplies, workout clothes that we hold on to and never use. It’s the catch-all room for everything that doesn't have a place to go, which seriously makes me laugh, because I know exactly what I would put in that room if I had a choice. The room holds nothing of real value and at the same time, contains the essence of everything that I dream of. In my life, I feel like it is the height of irony.

To extend this empty room irony a bit further, I have been bombarded with a pile of free baby stuff. I am beyond grateful for all of this-swings, vibrating bouncy chairs, a pack and play, high-chair, glider, bags of baby clothes, maternity clothes, bottles, and nursing equipment. It is seriously amazing. It will be a huge blessing down the road. But oh.my.gosh. every time I see these amazing blessings disguised as knives in my heart, I cannot help but cry. So I have an empty womb, an empty room, and a massive collection of stuff for a baby that doesn't exist. If it weren't able to laugh about how weirdly twisted this all is, I would probably never get out of bed in the morning.

I formulated an attack plan last weekend. BJ and I spring-cleaned the house from top to bottom. The first room I tackled was the empty room. I sorted through the clutter and got rid of everything that wasn't absolutely essential. Everything is organized and packed into boxes. I put the baby swings, pack and play and high chair in the closet and closed the door. I placed the glider by the window. I put the clothes, bottles and other small items in a tote and closed the lid. I thought it would all make me feel better. After I was finished, I didn't feel better. It felt like I packed up my dream and hid it in the closet. Out of sight and locked up tight.

I don’t know what I am going to do about the empty room. I think it’s a work in progress, a lot like me. The OCD and hyper-vigilant part of me hates this idea of being unfinished and unresolved. The part of me that is trying to be more open and honest about how much this hurts is whispering to me that it’s ok to let the room be empty, and that just because it is empty, and things are packed into the closet, it doesn't mean that I have packed away my dream.

Sometimes I go in the empty room to sit quietly and think about what it will be like when there is a baby to fill it. You know, when I haven’t showered in days, and the diaper pail is overflowing, and there is spit-up all over my yoga pants, and there is a perfect, precious, tiny soul swaddled in my arms. There is a palpable ache in the core of my body and soul, a psychosomatic manifestation of how much I want this little angel. At times like these, for a moment, the room doesn't feel so empty. Then I start fantasizing about painting the walls and removing the superhero border, and ridding the room of all traces of the Justice League, Christmas decorations and piles of displaced minutiae, and a smile plays across my face. Just breathe, and learn to keep breathing.

There is an empty room in my house.  Ok, so it’s not exactly empty. It’s full of hope and promise, fear and anticipation, boundless love and fierce desire. And baby stuff. Lots of baby stuff.