Displaced

We only bought a few things in anticipation of Sarah's birth. With both a girl and boy who were born in the summertime, I needed some sweaters and buntings. New socks, because matching ones can never be found.  I squee'd with delight in finding some matching outfits for Rachel and Sarah. And I ended up buying a new car seat with a wicked sale and massive research on the current industry standards.

When we made our speedy flight to the hospital on the last day of October, we took my husband's small car. The one with just two car seats installed, for our eldest children.  There was no discussion. We knew, deep in our hearts, that Sarah wasn't going to be coming home with us.

But after we came home, empty? I could not face my minivan. The empty infant seat behind mine.

Jonah had been so excited to move to the third row. Rachel had been moved to right. I had agonized where to position them, careful to do it weeks before Sarah's birth, so they would have time to adjust and not take it personally that they were being displaced.

In Jewish tradition, mourning lasts a full year.  It's a year until the headstone is uncovered at the grave. It's a year until you are allowed to make any major decisions, like getting rid of a person's possessions. The idea behind it is a sound one. People do rash things when they are upset; time gives perspective.

But there was no way I could look at my car with that empty seat.

Thankfully, a close friend dropped by.  A doer. A fellow mom. And I asked her, painfully, to rearrange my car. To remove the seat. Move the kids back to their original places.

I can't bring myself to get rid of that seat. Yet. I'm not sure if we'll sell it. Or donate it. Or keep it on the chance that we'll have more kids?  For now we'll cover it and hide it in the cluttered garage.

Adding it to our list of decisions that don't need to be made today.