Henry's room looks the same as the day he died. Ok, not entirely true, it's a little cleaner, but his bed, toys, clothes are all where they should be.
I don't go into his room often, but I crave it at times. It helps me feel close to him, to dust his dresser, touch his blankets, look at his clothes. I'm always sad when I do it, but I usually only go there when I'm already sad.
His ashes are in there as well, in a handsome wooden box with his name on it. I've only picked up the box twice since he died. It is not soothing to me to hold it, but I like it being in the house.
We're T-minus 13 weeks to baby, presuming she shows up around my due date, which the other three did. I've written before that I wasn't ready to prepare for her, plan for her, get excited for her arrival. Lately, I've been feeling like it's getting to be time.
I had thought that cleaning out Henry's room and preparing for the new baby were flip sides of the same coin. They aren't. I went into his room this morning to try to make a stepwise plan of what to do to begin the transition from his room to hers. I couldn't. I don't want to put away his toys. I don't want to store his clothes. I don't want to paint his walls. I don't want to give up the closeness, the connection that his room gives me.
I was waiting till I was ready. I don't think I'll ever get there.