A friend of mine, age 39, was scheduled yesterday to give birth to her fourth son. I have not yet heard any news but I dove into storage today to search for some of Kipp’s old baby clothes for her. You would think, with three previous boys, she would have enough little duds, but all of those babies were born in the summer. This is my friend’s first winter baby and since Kipp was a January baby too, seasons and sizes will correspond.
My search left me frustrated however. I have saved all Kipp’s clothes, every size, every season, since he was born (what a collection!), assuming I might have use for them again. But for some reason, the majority of his first year little rompers, sleepers and sunsuits were not there. Perhaps I lent them to someone else? Or stuck them in a different spot? I’m not sure, but they have gone missing.
Rummaging through all the bags, touching soft, crumpled little items that I hadn’t seen in years, was an odd experience. A few precious things—the baptism outfit, the home-from-the-hospital sleeper, the miniscule Irish fisherman’s sweater--I had put away for safekeeping, so I didn’t think that rooting around in the grubby everyday items would tug at my heartstrings much, but those piles represented so many contented and blissful and harried hours of my life (all those snaps!), and it all came back to me, in a far more visceral way than looking at images ever does. At first I felt dismayed by the shabbiness of it all and weary and overwhelmed by sheer quantity, but as I stuffed the wrinkled, stale and stained little garments back into their bags, I felt a completely unsolicited gathering of spiritual / maternal / domestic energy:
“Why," it dawned on me, "all they need is a good wash.”
And all would be transformed into softness and sweetness and readiness once again.
Though I never write about it, underlying all my struggles in the kitchen and battles with feminism and skirmishes with culture, is the constant question of whether or not to have another child. I’m well aware, now, of what the process entails. My husband and I are in a completely different place than we were six years ago (or even one year ago.) We are poised to be free of all of it—and yet, life is long and work is the key and love is the reward. I have this overall sensation that if I attempt to thwart fate, I will regret it, but that if I open myself up to fate, I will accept, gracefully, whatever it does or does not choose to deliver.
11:21:53 AM 
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