An Outfit

Contents of my children’s memory box

I lug the last of the clear tubs up our stairs and sat down to rest my legs. I know my role on moving day - triage commander at the front door, issuing out orders to the moving company, checklist in hand. “That one goes upstairs, primary bedroom please. Yes, thank you, let’s just put that in the garage, I have no idea what it is.” Apologizing for the heavy boxes, offering gatorade or pizza, cracking jokes any way to make them take more care with our things. I even carry my share of boxes to various corners of our new home, hoping to take the weight off their shoulders. 

We’ve moved more times than I count at the moment. We have a google doc. reserved just for our prior addresses. With moving comes new jobs, and new jobs mean applications. They always make you list all prior addresses, sigh. Our list has grown a lot lately. 

…

It’s quiet now, the boys are asleep, Daniel is working. I venture back to our new guest bedroom, a staging area for the boxes we didn’t have homes for. I take a deep breath, knowing the task ahead of me will be a tough one, unpacking our life, one tub at a time. Triaging items that haven’t seen daylight for the two years we traveled.  Keep or recycle, donate or trash, 

I settle in on a stack of clear tubs. They are labeled in order - boy clothes infant to 6mths, boy clothes 6mths to 1 year, boy clothes 2yo, etc. on up to 4 years old. The weight of the boxes is no comparison to the weight of the memories held within. With a deep breath, I give myself a goal, a last ditch effort, to squash the sentiment inside me that I already know will come pouring out, “Lauren, you can keep 5 outfits per child.” I say this aloud for good measure, though I know it’s useless. 

No amount of Marie Kondo can prepare you for this. If she were here, I’d tell her each and every outfit sparks joy, and then I’d make her a cup of tea and force her to listen to the story behind why I needed to keep each one. A wave of love envelopes me, as I open the lid and breathe the sweet smell of my babies on every article of clothing inside. 

The tiny light blue, ballooned coveralls that showed off his chubby legs sits on top. The sleep sack we graduated to at three months old, thank the high heavens, so we didn’t have to wrestle your swaddle every single night, sits below. I hold each piece in my hands and run my fingers along the fleece, the cotton, the buttons, the strings. I take the time to piece together an undone snap. These precious tokens send a wave of memories like a filmstrip through my mind. I didn’t realize how much I’d forgotten. I didn’t know an outfit could hold so much history, so much emotion. I’m not ready for this, I say to no one in particular.

 Sticking to my plan, I keep five outfits. The baby blanket, hand knitted lamb mobile, and your Noah’s ark wooden play set, hand painted and passed down from your daddy’s side, stay as well. I think about your future wives and imagine they couldn’t possibly be as sentimental as I am. I begin to question whether I’ve kept too much. But then it hits me, I’m keeping these items for me, they represent my motherhood journey, it’s okay if they don’t want them.

For a split second I realize the mistake I’ve made. Littering the floor, are heaps upon heaps of little boy outfits for donation. I take a moment to sit down on one of the clear tubs. What if we have a third child? I’ve just donated everything. I chide myself for even having the thought. In fact, I could have sworn I packed that hope away with these boxes two years ago. But no, I still dream about her sometimes, the imaginary little baby girl I don’t even have. We couldn’t possibly handle or make room for either, at least that’s what I find myself saying. Sometimes, in my dreams she’s the beautiful four year old girl I cared for in the war. Blue eyes, jet black hair, tanned skin, emotionless expression. I always told myself I’d name my daughter after her, Meena. 

The closer we venture away from diapers the happier my husband grows. It’s a weight lifted, a chance to breathe again, gaining pieces of ourselves back slowly. I can’t say I don’t love it. I hesitate to commit to being labeled a mom of two, and when asked in social circles I excitedly proclaim, “I’d be open to a third!” If I’m being honest, I don’t want to close this chapter. I still carry around my four year old like a baby, his petite frame making this all the more possible. 

I tuck away the blue and white striped sleeper in my one box of keepsakes. It will sit next to the wooden rattle, the mom’s on call books that were our lifeline, and the baby blankets, one for each of you. I’ll donate every single other thing, I love a clean home, a simplified lifestyle. But in my heart of hearts, I will still mourn the third baby we don’t have, we may never have. I open the lid one more time, inhaling the scents of my baby boys. That new baby smell, sweet, maple syrupy, intoxicating goodness fills my cup. I hope the scent remains and the ache, in time, begins to fade.