Making space. Literally.

I just folded Baby’s little jumpsuit.

And I put the bibs in the draw underneath.

I threw out the tissue paper I had wrapped them in, when I gave them to my husband.

I kept the gift bag though.

 

I hadn’t touched them since I had hidden them away.
After probably a month of leaving them out, as if proving to myself that Baby was a thing; Baby was real, because look, this was his jumpsuit. And bibs. And books.
Baby was totally a thing.

 

This grief feels different.
It’s definitely related to the absolute suffocation of previous heartache.
But it is different somehow too.

 

I have felt things shifting, internally and externally.
I can feel some form of energetic/metaphorical movement.

I know that this doesn’t mean that there is a baby coming yet. And I am almost certain that the two pink lines are a little while off. But that isn’t what this is about. At all. This was about honouring the quiet voice that whispered ‘look at the box’. And I did. And it feels beautifully refreshing.

 

I combed through the boxes of junk that had accumulated.
Those junk boxes from the end of the almost-finished spring clean – that have hold all the inny bitty junk pieces from the rest of the house. The pieces that stare at you as you are completely depleted – from the thorough cleaning already happening. The pieces that need to go in a box together so that you have permission to move on from this intensely deep soul searching clean.

Those were the boxes.

 

They were in the baby’s room.

And it’s not completely a baby room yet.
We still have our spare bed in there.
A desperate attempt to trick the outside world that babies are not the entirety of my being right now.
The spare bed doesn’t feel right in there.
But moving the spare bed would be a big deal.
It would be telling the world that this is a thing.
We would have to get rid of it, because it won’t fit anywhere else.
But that just makes such a statement…
An empty room?
To match an empty womb?
Do you start to fill it? With what? And when?

I think the bed needs to go.

 

I was so overwhelmed at different times, going through these boxes of junk.
I had laid most of it out over the bed.
One piece. Just do one piece. Go. Put it away, completely. Now, one more.
I’m not one for mantras, usually, but this was playing on repeat.

 

And I did it.

 

4 things went back into the cupboard, logistically.
For another day’s movement.

Then there is the bedside tables.
Then it is completely and utterly done.

It is SO incredibly liberating as tiny (and not so tiny) pockets of clutter and chaos and unnecessary attachments are released.

 

There is three jumpsuits.
Folded neatly.
In order of cuteness.

 

And it was really interesting how as I was pottering, my husband started to tidy in the other side of the house. The kitchen and dining space. Isn’t that interesting? Or is it just me. No expectation was placed, no questions or requests asked. I just went about pottering.

I wonder if that is a manifestation of the comment “don’t underestimate the impact you have on him”.

I wanted to know if he is feeling the shift.
This something-is-changing shift.
Beneath the surface.

I asked him as we went for a walk with our dog around the neighbourhood.

 

This is a difficult question for him to hear, because for him, he already is doing so many significant steps towards his idealised self. And his idealised self is a father.

But now. I ask. Do you feel the shifting right now?

 

I remember speaking to a healer about the roots of diseases and of course diseases of the womb arose. She spoke of my intrinsic need to be cleaning and clearing. And to follow that. As it arises.

It is making space.
Physically, spiritually, energetically.
For the baby.

 

So that’s what this is.
Space making.

With no external prompt or promise. No deadline full of shoulds or self-shaming.  Just an internal whisper that indicated that right now, this aspect of space, can be made and created.

So right now, I am proud of myself, for listening to that whisper. For a job well done. For a process being processed. For feeling the grief and sadness as it arises. And honouring this all as real.

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