We've decided it's time to move. To make it short and simple, we need to get into a different school district, one that actually takes allergies seriously (see this story, while not our school district in the story, it might as well be), and we need to be closer to a hospital as another precaution to keep N. safe.
But if we are going to sell this house, we need to clear the clutter and we are out of storage space. Why no space? Because it's been too painful to let go of my baby gear and hand me downs. Rob' had wanted to give it to my SIL, but I couldn't and I know he thinks I am nuts or at the very least one of those hoarder people. But I couldn't find a way to explain it to him. How could I explain that I wouldn't see little M. getting use out of those things, I would see the presence of absence....I would see what I didn't have. I know, it's a lousy excuse to be selfish, but there it is.
But the time has come when I can't hold onto it any longer. We need to do this to keep N. safe. So away goes the high chair, away goes the baby bath, away goes the grocery cart cover, baby carrier and so much more I can't bear to think of. As I sorted though each article of clothing deciding what would go to charity and what could be so sold, I felt like I was sorting through both pieces of memories and lost dreams.
I fingered the pink sleepers - they were so soft! Some never even used, because K., my adopted little one came to us 6 months later than she was expected. She couldn't' very well wear fleece in July. I remember tucking them away, knowing I was meant to have more children, maybe another girl.
And the boys clothes -such memories! Now they had two little boys that had worn these precious things, and hard! They played, slept, rolled in the mud and sand, played in the sink and went down many a slide in all those things. But they still had so much life left in them! Surely I could keep them for just one more child?
I loaded the first load into the van with a heavy heart. My legs felt like lead and my heart was in my throat. Even now as I write this, the things gone a receipt in my van, my whole body feels kind of numb, like it's trying to protect itself from any more possible pain,
They thanked me at the charity for my donation, like I was a good person or something for doing this, like I wanted to be there. I avoided watching them loading onto the waiting truck. I couldn't bare it. It seems they asked me at least three times, "It's all children's stuff, right?"
OMG. Why does this have to be so hard? In the spanse of few seconds I think, yes, these are children's things, things I will never get to use again. Things I don't want to give you, but I have no choice. Unlike other women, I can't just choose to have another child. Only a miracle can give me a child, and it seems I am fresh out. Don't thank me, I don't want to give you these things.
But I don't say that. I just say, yes, it's all children's things. I can't help but glance in the truck as the conversation goes on. They ask me again, it's all children's stuff, right? Each time I repeat back my answer calmly and politely, even though all I want to do is climb on that truck, grab my stuff back and peel out of the drive like a scene from a bad movie.
I always say, stuff is just stuff, it's not what's important in life. And I truly believe it. But in this case, it's different. Each piece taken away represented my hope and belief that life can be good. With each piece I give away, another piece of my hope dies, and takes with it a part of my heart, a part of my joy.
With each month that goes by, I wonder why we are here on this cruddy earth, when it's filled with so much pain? What's the point? It's harder and harder to take comfort in my children because I think, what kind of pain will they face? Will they go through this same nightmare, or something worse? I don't want to know, because I simply can't take anymore heart break.
So I tell my children life isn't fair, and no one promised it would be. But somewhere along the line, I guess I thought there were certain promises in life. I was a fool, and now I am paying the price for having that hope.
I recently saw on Facebook one of those graphics that's so popular right now... You know, everyone is posting some picture wrought with deep meaning, political statements or silly jokes. This one simple said "HOPE" Hang On, Pain Ends.
Yeah right... Hope simply garnishes more pain. It should really say, Hold on, Pain Endures. And so it will for me over the next few weeks as I battle my heart with my mind. I will have to force myself to let go of these things I hold dear, to give them away to strangers, to let the last of my hope drift away, un-noticed by anyone but me.
I turn 43 in 9 days, the year has past, and I have nothing but more lost pregnancies to show for it. And if life isn't hard enough, I started spotting today too. I'm telling ya, Someone somewhere must really hate me.
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