Full of Hope

There is a particular sort of tragedy to unused baby things - especially when they are long unused. They have a sense of longing to them. They were made to hold little bodies, to delight little hands and eyes, to snuggle close to little faces. When a crib stands empty in a corner for months, it could just as well be a black hole or an endless abyss for all the warmth it adds to a room. When toys and towels and blankets sit in a pile in a closet, unopened, unpacked, they lose their color, their softness. The emptiness is heavier because of all the potential missed, all the day-dreams during pregnancy evaporated, all the expectations suspended. 

The three and a half months I spent sitting in a hospital room with Elijah feel like some distant, terrible nightmare - only three weeks into being home. We have fallen into a routine that is so comfortable, so natural, so right that I can scarcely remember all the weight that used to sit on my heart. Sometimes when I see him curled up in his bed, I feel a lump in my throat at how much I had longed for that sight. After months of the crib standing vacant and cold, it's a dream come true to see him safe and home. He adds such a warmth and presence to every room that I can't help but be filled with delight. I'm finally getting to be his mommy and not just his visitor.