Unpacking

We've accomplished quite a bit of unpacking in the new place. Of course, considering we've now been here for two weeks, I had hoped we'd have a lot more done.

On Saturday, our third anniversary, I was working on putting the books away, a difficult thing in a family that is as anal as we are. There's a strange system I have where all fiction books are organized alphabetically by author - and other "reference" type materials are organized by type. It's time consuming but considering the lack of control I have in the rest of my life, it makes me feel powerful to have some sort of semblance of order.

He was pulling books out of a box, and I was sitting on the floor in front of the bookshelf, and he handed over a stack of books I bought at Christmas two years ago when I was just sure that pregnancy was imminent. What to Expect When You're Expecting, The Expectant Father, The Girlfriend's Guide to Pregnancy, Pregnancy Sucks, the Mayo Clinic Book of Pregnancy... I dropped them suddenly, as if they were scalding my hands - and looked at him. I don't want those in here. "O.k., then, we'll just put those in your nightstand shelf."

No. I said a little stronger, mustering up what strength I had to hide the uneasiness in my voice. I don't want those in here. The books were a physical representation of my naive hope, of my desperation, of my utter and complete failure and my stomach churned just looking at them. I just looked at him beseechingly, and I think - in a way - he understood. He picked them up and said that he would put them in the basement, so we can find them when we need them. My heart broke - as I thought, for what? Kindling material? We don't have a fireplace...

He still has hope. He still has faith. I am struggling with both, and finding my heart woefully empty.

As we continued to unpack, I came across a heavy dragonfly plaque and asked him to put it in the box with the pregnancy books. As a strange look passed his face, I explained, I bought it for the baby's room. He nodded, and placed it in the rubbermaid tub, sending our dreams to slumber amidst cast off sweaters, folding chairs and christmas ornaments.

I keep wishing that some little bit of Hope is wedged into one of the boxes still left to unpack.