The Place I Called Home
It was full of so much love, happiness and comfort.
Coming home from the hospital from the event that you had imagined for many months, the birth of your baby. You imagined it to be happy, your home to feel full, initiating the dogs to the new family member, to climb into your own bed and be in awe of your new little love, finally alone after the rush of hospital visitors. The house. The house when you come home empty armed feels so cold, so empty, so unwelcoming. You envision what it should have been. All the baby things you had spent months buying was now stuffed back into the completed nursery to help ease the pain of seeing them out like you had for the month of intense preparation. All of the food filling your fridges and freezers because your loved ones know you won’t be cooking for some time. Flowers of sympathy and not congratulations and items to aid in my physical recovery from birth. It is so cold. The home you once felt so comfortable in, you want to run away. Being downstairs was not a thing for the first 5-6 weeks after delivery, I couldn’t handle the chill, the quiet, the empty. How was it a place that my daughter never knew or will know, the place she never cried in, that she never grew earth side in felt that it was missing what made our house a home. Meals (once eaten) were always in bed, the day remained in our bedroom. It felt so wrong for things to be so put together and clean when all I wanted was burp rags to be everywhere, my sink full of dirty dishes, pacifiers at every corner of the couch and an in print of my butt in the best spot because I couldn’t help but to sit and snuggle my new life for hours on end. Her nursery was so complete, now stuffed, full with everything our family could gather to shield us from the pain. Her crib, so empty, so lonely, so cold. How had we prepared this space for our baby that would never be, that would never sleep in that crib, or be rocked in that chair, or whisked from the bath to that changing pad on her dresser. The books on the wall were never going to be read to her, those blinds would never be opened in the morning to wake her up. Why was this our house. How was she not here in it with us anymore. The house, the house you once saw a room become a playroom remained nameless, the stairs you already had a plan for to make a baby gate remained open, the safety plugs you bought for sockets- sitting unopened the plugs remained exposed. The house was baby less. It was just us again. Being in a space that is supposed to be your comfort, your safety felt so foreign. Your bed is where you stay, your room was always your room, that is where you stay.
How did you feel coming back home? Was there a specific place in your home that was more triggering or uncomfortable?