How old t-shirts taught me I was done with the baby days

We have it pretty easy dressing two boys. We had such an abundance of clothes from our first son, and we (me, really) were great at organizing them by size and storing them away for kiddo #2. We lucked out with two boys, and when we need a new size we just head out to the garage and are greeted by a pretty full wardrobe change. I’m firmly sold that boys are the easiest beings to dress. It’s all t-shirts, sweatshirts, jeans, and shorts, and everything kinda just goes. While I distinctly remember grumbling about how everything was blue, green, or gray, my no-nonsense self is all “hell-yeah-this-all-goes-together.”

shirts

The culprits, but I ain’t mad at ’em

This time around I found myself rummaging around in the short-sleeve shirts that my oldest wore while I was pregnant with my second. I know these are the same shirts because I remember tugging them over his toddler head with my last ounce of energy in my first trimester. I caught a glimpse of them peaking around the bathroom door as I tried to hide my morning sickness. I snuggled next to him in them as we watched ANOTHER movie in bed. For some reason in my wonky brain, his shirts are the shirts of my pregnancy. My own worn and stretched cotton numbers are long gone, donated or ditched. These tees bring back the memories. These bad boys have the feels attached.

And, you know what, I’m done with my baby days, and its okay. I’ve started having the pregnancy dream that preceded each of my pregnancies. I started to wonder if I had another little soul buried in my heart, but I don’t, and it is not making me nearly as sad as I thought it would. My heart is full. My life is complete. I’m more than blessed with the two little souls who have chosen to walk beside me. While my ovaries may still seize at the sight of baby cheeks (both pairs!) or fluttery eyelashes laying asleep, I’m content. I get the joys (and frustrations) of my preschooler and toddler. One day they will become my grade schooler and middle schooler, and so forth, and they will always be enough to fill my cup. I know why mother’s open their love and life to so many kids; indeed I may have one day pictured myself having more than two kids, but I have this wonderful sense of completion. We’ve got enough love to go around for miles and miles, but I’m done bearing babies.

In having a discussion with a loved one, she asked if my decision was in any way influenced with my experience with Postpartum depression, and my answer is both yes and no. Yes, I’d rather not open my life up to the chance subjecting my family to PPD again, but no, I’m certain my experience wouldn’t be the same if I were to experience another pregnancy. For starters, I’ve learned to speak up about what I need, and I would go to whatever crazy lengths it meant to have myself treated and my PPD controlled, should it surface again. I’ve learned to advocate for me, and not see that as a sign of weakness. I absolutely don’t see my choice to have two children as letting PPD win. Postpartum depression reared its ugly head in my life, but it didn’t win (as much as in inanimate object ever could win). We won together as a family when I got the help I needed. I’m out to help as many gals kick PPDs ass, and yeah, maybe that part is personal.

For whatever it is worth, I’ll lovingly fold this heap of t-shirts for as long as they fit my little one and hold onto the memories of feeling his kicks and turns. I’ll donate them the same way I’ve donated all the clothes before, and know that I’m doing the right thing for us, and for me. We are complete.

Read more the Mables experiences with with Postpartum depression here:

Megan’s experience

Sarah’s experience

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