We’re moving in a couple of weeks. Our new place is about two miles from here, and conveniently very close to the hospital where both kids were born. We’ve said that if we moved before we were finished having kids, we couldn’t live any further from the hospital than we do now. I think people thought we were kidding, but we were 100% serious. It’s not why we chose this new place, but we certainly took it into consideration.

Getting ready to move has brought up some unexpected emotions. I had worried before that if we did eventually move, I would have trouble leaving this place. I found out I was pregnant with Jillian the day before we closed, so most of my pregnancy was in this condo, and this was were we hibernated and tried to pick up the pieces after we lost her. We’re renting this place out instead of selling it, so I think knowing that we could come back if necessary has helped.

Other things have been hard. Twice, my breath has been taken away when coming across yarn that were supposed to become sweaters for her. The box of her clothes in the top of Ian’s closet is looming over me. I’m okay with seeing it, but I have to decide if we’re going to store it in the garage or somewhere in the house. The practical side of me says to put it in the garage, but the other part of me feels like I’m giving up or something by putting it down there. I have a feeling it will end up in my closet, but I’ve already shed tears over trying to figure it out.

I was going through my shoes the other night, weeding out pairs that I never wear anymore, including two pairs that are way too big on me. I put one in the donation pile, and then as I looked at the second pair, I had a flashback of buying both pairs. I was traveling for work, pregnant with Jillian, and desperate for new shoes because my feet were so swollen. I thought of the two adorable dresses I bought for her that night. Then I remembered putting these shoes into a plastic bag at the hospital the night she was born. I put the shoes away and grabbed the other pair from the donation pile while I completely broke down. I can’t let them go. It annoys me because I can’t wear them, and I hate holding onto stuff I don’t need, but I have to keep them. In a way, I feel like I only have so many things related to her, and if it means keeping these stupid shoes, I guess I have to do it. But like I told Dave through my tears, this is how hoarding starts. Oh, well.

There have been other things, too. The current owners of our new place have a little girl, and I’m not going to be able to turn her room into a boy room fast enough. When they still had their belongings there, I felt a knife in my heart every time I walked in there or saw a picture of it. I know I’ll feel better once Ian’s things are in there, but it’s hard not to think of the what-ifs.

I hate all of these feelings. I feel so… I don’t know what word I’m looking for. As I’ve been typing, I’ve been thinking that I need to get a grip and stop crying over yarn and too-big shoes and the fact that the little girl who lived there until recently had a dollhouse, and Jillian was supposed to get my childhood dollhouse, and that never happened and never will. I want to stop feeling sorry for myself, but I know I’m allowed to feel sorry for myself because there’s a good reason for it. I’ve been so happy in general, but these moments knock me down, then I beat myself up. I should probably try to be more patient with myself.