Letting go

So this morning I got a bug up my ass to really clean my son's room. Not just vacuum and dust, put away clothes, but really clean it. There is an odor coming from somewhere in the room that I can't find. It's gross. It smells like my husband threw a urine pull-up somewhere and just left it. I've already been through the whole room three times and found nothing, so I thought perhaps it was time to tear the whole thing apart. I am forty-five minutes into this task, and here I am. I need a break already. The entire room is filled with junk from end to end. I tore apart his closet, I went through bins of clothes "for when he gets older" and found that I missed an entire season of brand new clothes that he could have worn last year. Now with the new consumer protection acts, I'll probably never be able to get rid of them. His closet is filled with stuff from when he was a newborn- bouncy seats, receiving blankets, crib bumpers, those little wedges you shove under the mattress so they can breathe when they're sick. Baby monitors, baby toys, a tummy-time mat, you name it, I've saved it.

Why do I save all this stuff if I've sworn over and over that I'll never have another baby? My son's birth and my complications were too much for anyone to deal with twice, and I'm happy with the child I have. I seriously have no intention of ever having another child. So why do I need all this stuff? I am incapable of letting go. It took a lot for me to let go of the six bins of clothing that he no longer fit into. I pared it down to one bin of stuff that is just too sentimental, like the preemie clothes sent to me from all over the country by wonderful friends who had never actually met me. I remember when those clothes were too big for him, and how I had to watch him grow into the tiniest of t-shirts, and I can't let go.

Today is the day I finally dismantle his changing table, which I've been using as a shelf. It is falling apart. The top is destroyed. It's banged up, missing bolts, and probably can't be used again. Guess where it's going? Storage. Why? Because my grandmother gave it to him, and she's gone now. I can't let go of her, or anything she ever gave us. She was an amazing woman, the light of the family. I lost her almost a year ago today, and I lost my grandfather last month. These are the people who helped raise me, who encouraged my imagination and spoiled me rotten. They sang to me, they baked me cakes and brought me gifts from business trips. Now, I am incapable of letting go of them. I am devastated every time I think that I'll never talk to them again, never hear my Granny talk about the ghosts she's seen or my Pop-Pop tell a corny joke. So I'll take up valuable storage space to save a changing table that will never be used again, just like my mom is taking up valuable freezer space for a container of my grandmother's sauce that will never be eaten.

Just like I can never let go of them, I can't let go of my son's past. The items in his closet are a reminder of how far he's come. I still have leads left over from his apnea monitor. I remember the first time I heard it beep, how terrifying it was. I remember running into his room, flinging on the light, and yelling "breath baby," and the relief when it stopped beeping. Seven beeps, seven seconds. It doesn't seem like a long time, does it?

But now he's nearly four. He has no residual effects of prematurity. Aside from a language delay, he caught up and surpassed the other children his age. People look at me in shock when I tell them he was 3lbs, 5oz when he was born, and dropped down to under 3lbs before he started gaining. I should let go now. But instead, I've got a car full of bins ready to take over to the storage unit full of stuff he'll never use again. I'll go back downstairs and shove more mementos of his life into the closet. Then I'll find the source of that damn disgusting odor and put the whole room back together. He'll come home and say "Mommy, you cleaned!" then proceed to tear the whole thing apart again. Life will go on as normal on the surface. But inside, I'll still be holding on to everything, holding on to everyone I've ever lost or nearly lost. Eventually I'll let go, but for today, I'll settle for just re-organizing the mess in both my son's room and my heart.