Today I took apart a crib.
It’s not a noteworthy event unless you have some context; perhaps not even then. Our son has graduated to his “big boy” bed. We had a period of overlap where both the crib and his bed were in his room, and he could have the choice of sleeping in either one. With some urging, the new bed is now the preferred one, so it makes little sense to have both in his room.
In the grand tradition of sibling hand-me-downs, before the bed was his, it was his sister’s. And like the bed, before the crib was his, it was her’s. And before the crib was her’s, it was Amelia’s.
To most people, my wife and I are the parents of two children. Few know that we are really parents to three. Even I sometimes forget that fact. I’ve written about Amelia and her circumstance elsewhere, so it doesn’t bear repeating here.
My mother bought the crib for Amelia. It was on our baby registry at a place called Baby World in Oakland, CA which has since closed. I don’t remember putting it together, but I know I must have: I am the designated assembler of things-to-be-assembled. Amelia was our first pregnancy. I was excited for her, ready for her to come into being; to lay her head in that crib. I put it together a full two months before she was expected.
After Amelia died, I went home by myself — possibly to get clothes for my wife — and I saw the crib there. I had to take it apart and hide it. I didn’t want my wife to see it when she came home. I didn’t want to see it. Our dreams, our vision of the future, our journey with Amelia dissolved over three days . We had an empty crib to show for it.
Away in a closet, I sequestered the crib.
Early on, my wife and I knew that we would try again. Although fraught with similar difficulties, our second daughter was born a little more than a year later. And just like that, Amelia’s crib became hers.
I sometimes think about what life would have been like had Amelia lived. We wouldn’t have the son and daughter we have now, which unimaginable at this point. We might have had two children, but they wouldn’t be the ones we know now. Perhaps I’d be more naive about one aspect of the world: without uncertainty the cruelty life can visit upon us spares not even the youngest. Every parental anxiety is now pockmarked by those dark memories; that unmistakable tang of sorrow, horror and pleading desperation that slows and draws out the moment to an eternity.
To be sure, I allow myself feel it, let it gain focus. I don’t push it away readily. I draw it in. As I finish disassembling the crib, the present eventually comes back into the forefront.
My wife and I put the crib down in the basement. Some version of this ritual happens with many parents. The closing of a chapter. Watching them grow and progress to the next stage. But ours has an unfinished passage, locked in time.
I miss you, Amelia.