This started out as a hand-written note (yes, people still write those), but then for some reason I felt compelled to turn it into a blog post. Maybe someone out there needs to read it, or maybe I’m just a raging narcissist. You be the judge!
Before I ever got pregnant, I expected to have girls. I had good reason—Car’s brothers had only managed to spawn two sons at that point. (Even now, we contribute 1/3 of the Smith clan’s naturally-born grandson population.) Then I got pregnant which, as you know, didn’t go very well the first three times. However, in two of the three pregnancies I lost, we knew the gender: girl.
With girls on the brain, I did the natural thing many a baby-hungry woman has done: I bought baby clothes. If I saw something ridiculously cute on sale, I snatched it up. I filled a Rubbermaid tub with clothes fit for a princess and dubbed it my “baby trousseau.”
After my third loss, the baby trousseau was discreetly tucked away along with other baby-related items. Friends would have babies and I’d buy them gifts, but obviously I wasn’t going to take anything from my bin—that was stuff for my baby.
Four years passed, and I was finally blessed with my miracle baby, who just happened to be a boy.
My brother’s wife had a baby—the first girl on our side of the family. “Oh, she would look so cute in this outfit I have!” I said, and with a little pull at my heart, I opened up the big blue bin and found something perfect for my new niece.
Three more years, and another miracle—again, a boy. This time, a strong (very welcome) feeling that my childbearing years were over.
Little by little, my baby trousseau has dwindled as my acceptance has grown. Last week I opened it up to find a gift for a friend and discovered I’d reached the last of the items from my blue bin of princess clothes.
Emotions are funny things.
I have no desire to keep girl clothes at my house. I’m thrilled I’ll never have another baby. Yet here I sit, weeping because my baby trousseau is now empty.
Still, that bin can now be filled with rocks and cars and Legos (and skinny contortionist boys). I doubt it’ll stay empty very long.
I won’t be the mother of girls in this life, and that’s okay.
I’m the mother of boys. It’s not at all what I expected, but it’s glorious.