Since the end of last April, there has been an unopened bag addressed to me. In that moment my mom threw it to me, I knew I wouldn’t be able to rip it open and pull out its contents. That bag held my last happy buy. It was supposed to be opened right around the time Jensen was due. They were the last few clothes I thought he needed before he arrived. Every stitch filled with hope and excitement for the months to follow.
But, it was packed away so I wouldn’t be smacked in the face by the innocence I once had. It would throw me back to the day I purchased them, two days before Jensen was born. I was so excited on that day, I would have never thought everything would change in the way it did the very next day.
For almost ten months it sat on the shelf. Each time I saw it, I got closer to the bag. My mind knew what was in there, but my curiosity wanted to touch what I had last got him. It also hurt me to see it just sitting there, waiting in my parent’s basement. They didn’t deserve to be just ignored there when they were intended to be worn. So, I brought them home and to the closet I knew they would be housed.
Admittedly, I threw the bag in the closet and broke down. I was angry. My son would never wear these clothes and by this time, he would have outgrown them. I didn’t want to see them. Why go even through them and be taunted by their existence and Jensen’s absence?
The bag just sat there again.
I’ve never had the urge to go through his things, until today. When I got home, I walked into his room and just sat there. There was nothing out of the usual about today to make me feel this way. Screams were building in the back of my throat. Until something else became louder. I looked at the closet door and could almost hear the bag sitting there, calling out to me. Like a crazy woman, I answered the calls and ripped the bag right open. And the dreams of last April came tumbling out.
After I had went through each item (not all are pictured here), it hit me… these dreams should have been made a reality by now. Each should have been worn and dirty. They should be packed in a big ‘used Jensen clothes’ tote. I wanted them to smell like him and there to be a stain that housed a memory. The soles of the shoes need to be rough and dirty, not smooth and spotless. He should be the one laying on his rug looking up at me while we play. It shouldn’t be the image I have here. This pile of clothes, although beautiful, completely broke me.
I sat there with them, for longer than I care to admit.
Tears ran down my face as I folded them back and put them in their bag, forever unworn by the person that was intended to wear them. Not knowing what else to do with them, I put them back in the closet where they’ll continue sitting until I find what’s best for them. I shut the door, closing back up my hopes, dreams, and innocence. As I turned around I, once again, faced my reality. I faced his nursery, that doesn’t look like his nursery. Grief and exhaustion overwhelmed me as I walked into my living room. I wish I had the energy to keep being strong.
This reality sucks.
This Tuesday feels different. It’s the first one I woke up and didn’t think about how many weeks it’s been since Jensen’s been born; I thought how close his birthday is getting.
Six. More. Weeks.
I’ll have a one year old, who will forever be thirty-eight weeks and two days, in six weeks. Time is so unbelievably cruel in this way.
Happy forty-six weeks in heaven, Baby J. Gosh, I am so lucky that you’re my son. If I had a chance to do it all over again, I would always pick you. I’ll always wish and wish and wish some more to have you back with me. For now, I’ll keep fighting and saying your name. I miss you. I love you.