A House Does Not the Family Make

We moved the last of our belongings into our interim house last night.  I said a silent “goodbye” to our first house in North Carolina as we drove away.  It wasn’t as sad as leaving the house with the blue kitchen, but it was still bittersweet.

That was the second house I’ve lived in and expected to bring a baby home to.  When we moved here, I was sure the IVF would work and we would have a baby by the end of the year.  My due date is this week.  My two beautiful embryos, who gave me so much hope, should be here with us this week.  They should have grown into two beautiful babies.  They tried so hard and I love them so much for that.  They made it further than the two who came after, but hopefully not as far as the two still to come.  I love all six of them still.  I love the one before that.  I’ve known about seven of my babies and the fact that five of them are gone is still so heartbreaking to think about.

These four years have taught me that you just can’t force things to happen.  When we moved into our first house, the house with the blue kitchen, I thought the IUIs were going to work.  I thought that stupid yellow bedroom would be full of baby stuff before long.  I got pregnant and then I wasn’t.  A year later, I painted it and we replaced the flooring.  I refinished my grandmother’s dresser.  I knit and sewed for my baby.  I was determined to build it and confident that they would come.  But they didn’t.

And then we were offered the chance to try IVF, so we sold our house and left all the memories that never came true with it.  We moved to North Carolina and I unpacked all of our baby things.  The IVF was going to work.  I lined our baby books up on the dresser.  I filled one whole drawer with hand knit and hand sewn booties and socks.  I filled another drawer with hand knit sweaters.  I hung the dress my great grandmother made in the closet.  A box held fabric swatches for bedding and curtains.  The baby tub my mom bought us sat on the closet shelf.  I was so sure this would be my baby’s first bedroom.

And then we found out our first IVF transfer worked.  I was pregnant and so thankful and so happy.  But then they died. Again.  And then our next transfer failed.  Our lease was up on that house.  So I packed up every stitch of baby.  Every piece of maternity clothing.  I packed away the larger jeans I bought because IVF made me gain so much weight.  I pulled out all of my extra IVF meds to send to friends who needed them.  I put it all in storage, far away from our interim house.  Out of sight, away from me.  If I don’t see it, it won’t make me cry.  If we don’t have a room for it, I won’t try to get it out.  I won’t sew for our baby anymore.  I won’t knit for someone who might never come.  I won’t buy another house with those thoughts in my mind.

A house does not the family make.  Family is intangible.  Family is who you love, even when they’re far away or not even on this earth anymore.  I love my babies with all my heart, but I can’t make room for them anymore.  I can’t keep putting my life on hold and live with the “what if’s”.  They aren’t here.  We are.  I want to cherish the life I have.  I don’t want reminders of what I don’t lingering behind closed doors.  So in storage it will all stay.  Away from here.  Maybe one days we’ll need it all for real.