I like to paint a picture, when I can, of what life as an "Angel Mom" looks like.
Every day I come into this nursery to do my writing. You knew that. Which means you also understand that I've left this room unchanged. The way it looks now is the way it was meant to look when Ryan came home. His space.
So here's my confession. I haven't even touched the things tucked away. His clothes still hang in the closet. And even more clothes remain neatly folded and organized by age in various drawers and baskets and cubbies.
Sometimes I open those drawers and I just look. I think about how he might have looked in the cute polo onesies. The graphic onesies with little turtles, elephants, and stripes. The sleepers with the built in mitties to protect his precious little face from scratches. All the cutesie baseball stuff. I think of him that way. Alive. Breathing. Wiggling in his little outfits chosen for or handed down so lovingly to him.
Then I breathe in. And I can smell that baby powder smell from the diapers still stored in the drawers and packed away in the closet. I indulge myself in that smell that's so specifically "baby."
And I miss him.
And I dream of who might come next.
And I try to stop myself from hoping it'll be another little boy -- who can share his brother's things. But really I know, any sibling for my Ryan will be good enough.
But it will never be him.
Moments like that, are what being a mom like me is all about.