My View 5: Making Space?

The glider-rocker I got before Henry was born is still hanging in there, though the way my girls climb on it, hang off it, and slam it too and fro, I wonder how long it has. I find myself back in this chair again more often come evening because this room is cozy.

In November, we got the insert stove we've been talking about getting since we got married. My fears of this room being intolerably warm weren't warranted, but we are still working out the kinks of getting the warm air circulating effectively. The bedrooms are warm, but I worry about the pipes at the other end of the house in the poorly insulated bathroom. We're in the middle of a cold snap, so I guess this is the test.

The stove means that the toys that I once housed in piles and bins in front of the fireplace had to find a new home. It means there are piles of wood and plastic buckets of sticks and wood chips and other debris. The stove has a blower, so if we're working on maximum efficiency, it's loud. I hated that at first, but I've gotten used to, as we do with most things. It also seems to have driven away the ants that usually start invading our living room in January. I remember sitting nursing Kathleen and with Elizabeth and watching lines of ants moving across the floor.

The stove means more sooty dust on the mantle, so I try to dust it more, and when I do, I stop to look at Henry's pictures there. I think about moving the two big collage frames that are there, though I don't know what I'd put there instead. I have a vision of family photos mounted on the walls by the bottom of the stairs (if I don't get the built in bookcases I'd really like), but I'm waiting until we finish peeling wallpaper and paint that wall. It's been in a state of half prepped for almost six years. That's the way of projects I guess.

I think too about replacing some of the pictures from those frames, mingling Henry with the rest of our family. My sister put together all our framed pictures—these two big collage frames and dozens of smaller, individual ones—for his funeral, when I knew I wanted pictures but couldn't do it. These pictures are still all over our house. I love having them, but I want Henry to be part of us, not an aside, much the way I have a tiny tree that is only his but also put his ornaments on our full Christmas tree. As I look around, I see the dried filler flowers from one of the arrangements from his funeral and wonder if I'm ready to compost them. I think of the dried white roses on the Henry shelf in my office and contemplate moving them upstairs and mingling them with the dried roses Brian has given me. These things that are tied not to him, but to his death—am I ready to let them go and make some space?

My View, Year 4

It has become a January tradition for me to sit in this chair that I got to rock my babies in and reflect on what I see and what has changed and where I am.

The view this year is much like last year. The swing is gone, replaced by the kitchen set, but toys still fill the shelves and block the fireplace. Kathleen's babies—Lulu, Baby, Maisie, and Jack (where's Bessie?) are jumbled on top of the stuffed animals along with "Sister's baby" Maxie, who Kathleen informed me is Lulu's brother. The stuffed animals are piled in a huge basket, made by our neighbor and given to us at our neighborhood party two days before Henry was born.

The milkcrates and CD stand still overflow with board books and picture books. One of our actual bookcases, however, is half empty, the books moved to save them from Elizabeth, who has a knack for destroying them.

CDs are piled above the TV all around Henry's picture, where I've stuck them after our pre-bedtime dance parties.

Up until last week, the Christmas tree lighted the corner by the stairs, the first time since 2006 a Christmas tree graced our home. Now, the Christmas ornaments are down, with some snowflakes and snowmen and cardinals (I categorize them all as winter) remain.

From here, I can see that much of the house is a mess, though I don't know if it is more so than years past. I think I just feel more overwhelmed with stuff. Toys, diaper bags, outgrown clothes litter the table and pile by the stairs. I don't worry really about the house being clean. I don't bother to apologize for my messy house. But sometimes, the clutter gets to me. Every time I make headway, we get an influx of clothes or laundry piles up waiting to be put away or I don't have time to finish sorting and everything gets jumbled again. Sigh.

It's messy and lived in and filled with things we love (and things we don't have the time or energy to get rid of (see above). Sitting now, remembering the many steps Elizabeth took today, it's hard to recall just how tiny she was this time last year, how many hours I logged nursing and reading and cuddling in this chair. Thinking of the songs Kathleen makes up, its hard to remember what it felt like sitting with her three years ago, making up songs for her. Looking around this room full of family and life and love and stuff, it's hard to remember the barren walls and just how shocked and adrift I was four years ago. I look again at his pictures and still wonder how this can be my life, how he can be gone. And I look around the room again and wonder how that fits somehow with all that is here, because it does. His being gone is somehow part of this life that we have settled into.