The fuschia pants with the sparklies. The pink Gap velour sweatsuit. The teeny tiny white onesie we got at the hospital.
I am going through bins of Sage's old clothes, from newborn til now. I am having a ginormous garage sale to raise money for my marathon. So I'm sorting by size and by stain, and surprisingly, by sentimentality.
It is a slow process. Not just because of the sheer enormity of the job - YEGADS the child has a lot of clothes! - but in the emotions that accompany my task.
I hold each item in my hands like a butterfly, gently admiring as I think back to moments when my little girl wore them. The tears come. How can I sell these? How can I not keep this tangible evidence that yes, Sage was once this small, once demanded to be carried ALL day, once finally, finally smiled at me for the first time?
I don't remember being this attached over Sawyer's stuff. I sent all his clothes from 0-12 months to my friend E. She was having a boy, and already had a girl, so she sent me her daughter's stuff. Sure, I kept a few things, but most of it went to M. Who happened to be born the day after Sage.
The difference is that I was already pregnant with Sage. I knew I'd have another baby to dress, one who would wear pink and lavender and girly stuff instead of shirts with monster trucks and race cars.
Sage is likely my last. And so I mourn.
She is the age Sawyer was when she was born. They are 21 months apart, almost to the day. I can't even imagine having a newborn now. We joke that if she was the first, she'd be an only. It is a marker of time passed, though. She seems younger than he was at the same age: he was already in his "big boy" bed. He was speaking in sentences. He was happy most of the time, and, I now realize, relatively easy.
Sage was not. She wailed for her first 7 1/2 months. I told David during some of the worst of it, like when she cried for seven hours straight, that what made me most sad was that I had brought such an unhappy child into the world.
Selfishly, I feel I missed out. There weren't a lot of quiet moments, times when she would coo and belly laugh and was just happy to simply be. It was tough to savor my "last" moments of being a mommy to an infant.
Maybe I want one more chance.
David goes from being completely convinced that we're done to throwing me a little kernel of hope every now and again. Then I have to ask myself if I want another one because our family doesn't feel complete, or so that I can have one last baby to cuddle.