If you’ve been following along with my journey for awhile, you’re sure to know that our latest little guy, Pipsqueak, was full of surprises. Not only was he an unexpected surprise but he was also bigger and later than expected. But the biggest surprise by far was the he was in fact a HE.
We waited to find out his gender, just like with our other three kids, until he was in my arms and while we didn’t know for certain, we were sure he was a she. We had planned our entire existence around having another girl (though we always kept in mind we could have a boy). We assigned bedrooms in our new house based on another girl, we discussed girls names extensively and came to a decision of his name just weeks before he was born (but well after my full-term date). I would tell everyone who asked what I thought “I’m hoping for a girl because if Doodle doesn’t kill me, another boy surely will!” (On a side note, though, Pipsqueak is a super sweet little fellow and I am doing everything I can to keep him that way!)
So needless to say, I was a little shocked to realize we were indeed, even-steven, two-and-two. And while I loved him instantly and wouldn’t give him back for the world, I’ll admit it took me awhile to get past the fact that he was not the girl I had been dreaming about.
I always wanted four little ones. And I would have been perfectly happy if they had all been little girls. Honestly, the first two I was prepared for either but after two girls, the boy idea began to scare me when I was expecting Doodle. And when expecting Pipsqueak, I really wanted that last little girl to dress up and take to the ballet. And throughout my pregnancy, he felt like a little girl.
I spent weeks mourning the loss of my dream for another little girl. But it isn’t the fact that we got another boy. In fact, it has nothing to do with him at all. It has everything to do with me.
I would think about the bags and bags (and bags and bags) of adorable little girl clothes that I’d been saving and get teary-eyed. The clothes that I’d moved across the ocean and back and all the way to our new house. The clothes that I’d spent two pregnancies dreaming about dressing my newest tiny little girl in. And the realization that it would never actually happen was hard for me for those early weeks when I was already a mess of raging hormones and too little sleep.
I had been ready to get rid of the boy stuff, pass it on. Most of it was passed on to us anyways and while there are certainly a few pieces that I adored on Doodle, I didn’t feel any sort of attachment to most of his stuff. But anytime I saw those stacks of pink and purple, lace and flowers, I lost it.
We desperately need the space, Pipsqueak is 8 weeks old and sleeping through the night occasionally, he’ll need his room soon. But how on Earth would I ever be able to decide what to keep and what to part with? I honestly felt distraught about it.
I began going through things, one bag at a time and as I held back the tears, I told hubby that I would need awhile. That it would probably take me a few rounds of sorting to get rid of most of it, to let go. To accept that there would be no more baby girls in my home.
But once I started, it was a lot easier than I imagined. Things began to quickly jump into piles: things for Honeybun; things for Sugarplum; things to pass to my sister should she ever have a daughter; things to sell or donate; things to give to friends; and a pile of things for me, all the things I can’t part with just yet.
And as my piles formed, I noticed something. My pile was filled with memories. It wasn’t just the cutest things the girls ever wore, it was things that I remember, the pieces that have special memories attached.
Like the blue argyle onesie that I adored on Honeybun because it wasn’t pink, purple or flowers.
Like the fleece jumper set Honeybun wore the first time my Gran’ma and Aunt touched her, both of whom are gone now.
Like the pink little t-shirt both girls wore the day they started crawling.
Like the first dress I bought for Sugarplum in Dublin because all of Honeybun’s dresses in the newborn size were sundresses and it was fall and cold and I couldn’t stand for her not to have a single dress to wear.
And as I sorted through the clothes, I realized I wasn’t sorting clothes, I was sorting memories. And while I would have loved to have another baby girl, that’s not what I’m actually sad about. I feel like I’m giving away their memories, the two baby girls that I carried and nursed and held when they were sick and scared. My two big girls that don’t need me so much now and who are growing and changing every day.
It feels like I’m giving away my babies.
