Two years ago, I found this on the clearance racks during my winter clearance shopping out the outlet mall.
I snagged it, thinking with my practical mind that I could give it as a gift if I didn't need it myself. My hormonal, sleep deprived mind (I'd given birth about 3 months prior) assumed that the shirt would end up hung in Little Miss' closet when she was wearing a 2T, and I have been secretly looking forward to it ever since.
A few days ago, I pulled out the pastel pink and purple storage tub containing the 2T clothing. The big sister shirt was laying neatly on the top of the pile as if I hadn't wanted to shove it into the bottom crevices of the Rubbermaid. As if it held a place of honor.
I am not a crier. But in my defense, I had been stuck mommying indoors with a husband away for a week and simultaneously entertaining my monthly visitor.
I cried tears disappointment and guilt.
I cried because I thought we'd have another baby on the way by now... maybe even one squirming in my arms right then.
Because I thought I'd be that much closer to life with independent children, life with a few hours of silence while the kids were at school, of life with time for gym memberships and hair appointments.
I cried because I've been a mother since I was 16 and because I'm ready to be finished raising little ones, as much as I love babies and would love another.
I cried because I'll be giving Little Miss' shirt to my dear cousin. My cousin who has a little boy the same age as Little Mister. And a daughter the same age as Little Miss. The cousin who started trying to get pregnant again when we did. The cousin who will meet her newest baby boy in a couple months.
And I cried because I realized how incredibly selfish most of my emotions were.
And then I gave it to God, wiped my eyes, and unpacked the box of clothes.