This is Peyton’s room.

It has been sixteen months since Peyton left this world, seventeen since she entered it, and eighteen since this room was created. Entire cycles of seasons, holidays, and milestones have passed, and yet, stuck on pause, both this room, and I, sit waiting.

Not much has changed about Peyton’s room. Nothing at all since her death.

Books wait to be read. Toys to be played with. Diaper creams and lotions now nearing their expiration date, sit below a changing table waiting to be used.

Piles of wrapped gifts remain untouched.

Her clothes from the hospital sit in a plastic bag by the dresser.

“They are toxic,” the nurses warned, made so by traces of chemo in her spit-up. "You have to take special care in washing them." 

This little bag has kept me up so many nights, panicked over what to do. Unwashed, the poison still remains. Washed, her scent of mint and milk is lost forever. 

When we put the finishing touches on this room, I sat in this chair, folding onesies, socks and blankets, while hubs hung shelves and pictures. I had never been so happy in all my life.

The last time I sat here, just days before Peyton was born, worry took hold of me, and floods of tears came. 

I flash back to that moment a lot, to the way panic gripped me. I had never been scared in my pregnancy. I never had a reason to be. I was a planner. I was healthy. I had everything under control. 

It came as a complete shock when through tears I told hubs how scared I suddenly felt. How worried I was that I would screw this up. That I might screw her up. That I wouldn’t be a good enough mother, love her enough or know what to do should something go wrong. 

“This is all normal,” he reassured me. “All new mothers probably feel this way. It’s okay.”

I think about that day a lot, about how inconsolable I became for seemingly no reason.

Did I know?
Did something deep inside me know?

The other day I ventured into this little yellow room, this room where nothing changes, this room that time forgot, and made a painful discovery. Dust.

Layers upon layers of dust so thick that I could write her name in them.

She is being lost to time. Covered up. Buried. Sprinkled in a muted veil as if the universe is trying to hide her existence. Trying, with all its might, to hide the ugly truth that things like this happen to beautiful little babies.

Some may think I am overreacting to something that could be wiped away with a rag, but to me it signifies so much more than that. I see the bigger picture. I understand what enough time will do to Peyton, that though she will always beat in my heart, with enough time, to the world, nature, the universe, she will be forgotten. 

To see what others are Showing and Telling, go here.

This is Peyton’s room.

It has been sixteen months since Peyton left this world, seventeen since she entered it, and eighteen since this room was created. Entire cycles of seasons, holidays, and milestones have passed, and yet, stuck on pause, both this room, and I, sit waiting.

Not much has changed about Peyton’s room. Nothing at all since her death.

Books wait to be read. Toys to be played with. Diaper creams and lotions now nearing their expiration date, sit below a changing table waiting to be used.

Piles of wrapped gifts remain untouched.

Her clothes from the hospital sit in a plastic bag by the dresser.

“They are toxic,” the nurses warned, made so by traces of chemo in her spit-up. "You have to take special care in washing them." 

This little bag has kept me up so many nights, panicked over what to do. Unwashed, the poison still remains. Washed, her scent of mint and milk is lost forever. 

When we put the finishing touches on this room, I sat in this chair, folding onesies, socks and blankets, while hubs hung shelves and pictures. I had never been so happy in all my life.

The last time I sat here, just days before Peyton was born, worry took hold of me, and floods of tears came. 

I flash back to that moment a lot, to the way panic gripped me. I had never been scared in my pregnancy. I never had a reason to be. I was a planner. I was healthy. I had everything under control. 

It came as a complete shock when through tears I told hubs how scared I suddenly felt. How worried I was that I would screw this up. That I might screw her up. That I wouldn’t be a good enough mother, love her enough or know what to do should something go wrong. 

“This is all normal,” he reassured me. “All new mothers probably feel this way. It’s okay.”

I think about that day a lot, about how inconsolable I became for seemingly no reason.

Did I know?
Did something deep inside me know?

The other day I ventured into this little yellow room, this room where nothing changes, this room that time forgot, and made a painful discovery. Dust.

Layers upon layers of dust so thick that I could write her name in them.

She is being lost to time. Covered up. Buried. Sprinkled in a muted veil as if the universe is trying to hide her existence. Trying, with all its might, to hide the ugly truth that things like this happen to beautiful little babies.

Some may think I am overreacting to something that could be wiped away with a rag, but to me it signifies so much more than that. I see the bigger picture. I understand what enough time will do to Peyton, that though she will always beat in my heart, with enough time, to the world, nature, the universe, she will be forgotten. 

To see what others are Showing and Telling, go here.

I wonder if all aspiring authors have to stop writing mid chapter to chase their escaped dog up and down the snowy street in their pajamas?

For show and tell, I give you Charlotte... the guilty party.

Here is a picture of her tuckered out from her great run up and down, and back and forth, and across, and in figure eights in my neighborhood.

And here she is telling me what she thinks of my writing...Such a critic!

To see what others are showing and telling, go visit Mel here.