Thursday, July 17, 2014

Mom Purse

A couple of weeks ago, Scott and I ventured out with both girls in tow to check out new living room furniture. Something about being on maternity leave makes me want to renovate/improve/purchase things to feather my nest. This time is no different. There are countertops to be replaced, millwork to be installed, and new furniture to be purchased.

Because Grace is a terrible two'er, we make it a point to limit trips out of the house until after her nap, and cautiously pack extra "nums", a sippy and some snacks.

We clearly overstayed our welcome at Lazboy when Grace started freaking out about being hungry. Snacks were in the car, soother was no longer satisfying, and she had experienced just about enough of our tirades about the pros and cons of a new sectional. A fit was thrown and it was then I started panicking.

I fumbled through my messy purse, jamming my fingers into an unknown sticky substance (what I suspect to be the innards of a Nutragrain bar), feeling the familiar foil wrapper of a rice crispy treat. As I pulled the snack out, out fell the two "emergency diapers" (a size five and a size two) I carry in my purse just in case. And I smiled to myself after settling the big one down with the treat- I am finally the mythical unicorn I feared I would never be- I am a spare diaper-carrying, treat baring mother.

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I still miss him like crazy. There are still days that I wake up and have to actually think about whether I have a baby- and whether it's a he or a she... I think I must spend my subconscious thinking of him because sometimes I feel so close to him. There are still days when I am so jealous of people who get to live ordinary lives, who can read how sad things are for "us" when I share or post something on Facebook, and yet get to close their computer and tuck ALL of their babies in at night.

It makes me so sad and desperate to continue to wish for that life. The one with him in it too.

Because it can't happen, and yet knowing this doesn't really make it any easier.


 
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