I worked so hard getting everything just right. Colors, bedding, matching baskets holding her teeny tiny diapers, and those pink polka dots we lovingly painted. From her adorable crib right down to her freshly washed socks, everything was perfect.
But now I can't go in there.
If I walk past her room and the door happens to be open, I quickly shut it without even glancing inside. I can't do it.
I can't bear to see all of her folded clothes. I don't want to see the dress she wore, the blanket she was wrapped in. I don't want to sit in the corner rocking chair. I've had so many dreams with me sitting there, cradling and nursing my baby.
I've tried to talk myself into it. But I can't.
I spoke to a dear friend about this. She also lost a daughter and has been an amazing support to me. I told her I am frustrated. I told her I want to go in Molly's room. I feel weak that I can't do it. She lovingly said, "Take your time. There is no right way to grieve. Don't rush yourself. You'll go in her room when you're ready."
This small comment made a tremendous impact on me. I know it sounds strange, but it was as if an enormous stress was lifted from me. I don't have to go in Molly's room if I'm not ready. And I'm not.
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