My attic space is full of bags. Bags that are full of Moo’s clothes, clothes she’s grown out of. I’ve got newborn sleep suits, teenyfit nappies, patterned tops, hand knitted cardigans, the smallest hats you can imagine…
I can’t part with any of it.
I look at the smallest things, the tiny sizes. It’s incredible that she ever fitted into them. I hardly remember that time and it fills me with sadness. Those few weeks, when Moo wore the tiniest items, are a blur. A mess of depression, tears, feeding struggles. I was out of my mind bat shit crazy. I didn’t enjoy any of it, appreciate any of it. I didn’t show her off, looking adorable, I barely left the house. Looking at the clothes takes me right back to the memory of sitting in my sun lit living room, Moo in the Moses basket, being visited by health care professionals, constantly attached to a breast pump. The photographs of her in the outfits are beautiful, so serene. A complete contrast to the reality at that time.
It’s ridiculous that I keep so much. I’m sure the ‘coming home outfit’ and a few small bits is normal. I’m sure it’s normal to keep things that may be of use to future children. But I’m not having any. Keeping holdalls rammed to breaking point with clothes is absurd. What am I planning to do with them? Sit in the loft weeping as I rifle through them? They’re a constant reminder of the times I mentally missed and the children I’ll never have. It’s pathetic.
It might be cathartic to sort through them, sniff them one last time, and then let them go. But I’m not ready. I’m not sure I’ll ever be.