ZERO times getting emotional about it, just getting through one day at a time and taking it easy. Some good days, some physically painful days but overall, doing really great. Emotionally strong. (Booyah, Cansuh!)
Oh sure, secretly I was waiting for it. But inside, I was pretty proud at how well I was holding up. Perhaps it really doesn’t bother me, I thought.
Until of course, I tried to say the words, “baby clothes.”
I lost it at “baby clothes.”
The conversation was simple. It went like this:
Husband: ….”so next weekend is a three day weekend, we can dedicate the entire weekend to getting the sprinklers fixed.”
Me: “OK but I don’t want to hear it next Saturday morning that we don’t have this or don’t have that ready and I don’t want to hear the complaint department and how every step of the way something isn’t working…” (I can be bitchy before breakfast.)
Husband: “I know, don’t worry, it won’t be that way. I promise.”
Me: “Oooh! I can even help next weekend probably!” I mean, I’ll have the bag off and it’ll be three weeks, I can do more, right?!
Husband: “I know what you can do if you want! You can go through the bins in the garage.”
Me: “Sure! I mean, let’s be honest, they’re mostly ….” (pause).
(immediate involuntary breakdown.)
(Tears sprouting from face.)
Husband comes over to apologize, he didn’t mean that, tries to put out the flames. Poor husband.
It’s not his fault.
I was wondering when it would hit me.
I was pretty much waiting for it.
And this was completely unexpected.
Turns out the words “baby clothes” was the big shiny red launch button.
In fact, the words “baby clothes” even now, hurt my insides real bad. I have saved almost all of their baby clothes. Preemie clothes, 0-3 months, 3-6 months, 6-9 months, 6-12 months, 12-18 months, 18-24 months, 36 months. They are all in separate bins, all labeled, every one of them.
I don’t even need to go through them, really. In fact, now I’m thinking I don’t want to ever and can’t picture a day in which I physically could.
But there are a million zillion bins of them and they’re taking up pretty much the whole garage. Well not really, but if they weren’t there, it would be a pretty significant difference.
I was saving them for, well, you know.
The probability of having a girl after having two boys was pretty small in my mind. My best friend had three boys. My cousin had three boys. I really don’t know many people in my life ever who have had two boys and then one girl. Even though secretly I was holding out hope. I had always pictured a little “me” running around with pigtails like I did.
Someone to have tea parties with. Shop for dresses for. “Tap” shoes.
Someone to fight with in the teen years.
Even if it wasn’t a girl, I pictured having three stinky boys with teenage locker room bedrooms. I pictured how the third one, who would be at least 5 years younger than my youngest, would adapt, how we’d probably treat him like a baby. How I’d still try to work from home while carrying him around in a sling. I pictured all of this in pretty extreme detail, as if it were already reality, in fact.
We had fully intended on having a third baby. We had even tried over the winter but when nothing happened we decided to wait until right after St. Anthony’s. I wanted one more race under my belt and wanted to get in a little better shape first.
Now there’s no reason to save the baby clothes, any of them. Which even now as I write this, makes my insides weep.
I suppose deep down I’m really not ok with this. And I know that’s ok. This is all part of it. One of the harder parts of it.
As I type this with tears running down my face, I really have no idea how I’ll handle the actual moving of the bins.
I can still picture most of the outfits that are in there, I have loved every one of them. Winnie the Poohs, sleep sacks, baby hats, a Ralph Lauren outfit my cousin had given me, a Calvin Klein jean jacket, onesies, sleepers in which I can still picture them sleeping on their bellies with their tiny perfect round butts in the air, oh how I loved to rub those tiny sleeping diapered jammy butts while they slept. Some of them still have orange stains from where the carrots spilled and I can still picture how far up their jammied backs the diaper blowouts went.
I don’t know what I’ll do with these things. In reality, we’ll have to do something. At some point. But I’m pretty sure right now if I so much as look at them, I’ll crumple into a heap on the garage floor.
I’m thinking I may need some time to figure this one out. I’ve passed the time mostly not even thinking about what a hysterectomy actually means and when my mind has started to wander I just quickly switch topics.
I’ve focused elsewhere.
Perhaps one day it’ll all be less tender and I’ll be able to move on from this. Maybe one day I’ll actually be ok with the moving of the bins myself, even though I can’t picture it right now. Perhaps I’ll need someone else to do it.
Either way, it took the words “baby clothes” to make me realize that it’s not just my physical wounds that need healing.
My heart is broken.
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