I don’t know if I want to have another baby. What I do know is I don’t like having that choice taken away from me and right now it feels like it has been.
I have been storing all of Miss Rose’s baby things at my mum’s house, but she’s unable to store them anymore, and I’ve had boxes and bin bags full of clothes piled in my little house.
The only solution seemed to be a carboot sale. I picked out certain items; the outfit she came home in, her first shoes, then prepared myself to sell the rest. I had nowhere else to store them, and as I have no plans for another baby it didn’t seem to matter.
The thing is… having no plans for another baby doesn’t mean no baby ever. When my husband and I were together we planned to have another. I was saving all Miss Rose’s things for her sibling, then to pass them on to friends. But now it’s just me. Just us. She and me. With no man, and barely any money, the idea of adding another baby to the mix is as impractical as it is improbable, so getting rid of the unneeded, space consuming, clothes is sensible. Practical. But do I want to rule it out?
Of course, should I end up in a situation in the future where another baby is the right choice then I can easily just buy new clothes, new shoes. Getting rid of Miss Rose’s clothes doesn’t exactly act as a permanent contraceptive, and I know that, but some how it feels like a choice. An acceptance of a reality I’m not yet ready to accept.
There’s the added problem of giving up those memories. Surrounded by tiny little baby clothes makes me realise I am not mother to a baby anymore. She’s a little lady. Watching her walk along with her back pack on and her flashing trainers, pointing out things she knows words to and saying “hiya!” happily to people she recognises, it’s clear evidence that she is not a baby.
This realisation, these memories of my tiny little girl, ended with me sat on my living room floor, drinking wine, and sobbing into first size baby grows, furiously attempting to convince myself that I was okay with selling them. Fifty pence a piece. Fifty pence a memory.
No more baby. No future baby. Currently no choice to change that.
So it turned out I’m not okay with it. I’m just not.
The clothes have been organised into size, and stuffed into vacuum sealed bags. Shrunken down they can be stored more easily and my dreams of a potential future family, and my memories of my perfect and beautiful little girl, don’t have to disappear into a carboot sale and the lives of strangers.
Maybe one day. But not yet.
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Thanks as always for reading, and I’ll speak to you soon I hope!