Baby Clothes

I have always believed I would have a family one day. I always wanted a child, even as a young woman. What I wanted was a son. Don’t ask me why—a son and not a daughter. I have no clue. The idea of having a daughter never entered my head. It was always so.

My first marriage was at 23. It was a disaster. I’ll take most of the responsibility. I was desperate to get away from my dad, and I was so angry inside that I jumped on the first and worst choice for me to show him I would do what I wanted. I didn’t really understand it at the time, but with time, wisdom comes; I finally came to understand the reality of my choices. That was in no way a good idea, and I don’t recommend it, by the way.

My first marriage ended after six years. Six very long years. Fortunately, I never had a child with him. It would have ended up on a Jerry Springer show or Dr. Phil. I still wanted a child.

I met my current husband, and after a year and a half, we married. On our honeymoon, my journey with fertility or infertility began.

There is nothing to describe the feeling when you hear the words, “You are pregnant.” It falls short of the feelings you get when you hear the often close, and less welcome cousin to those words, “I am sorry, but your pregnancy is not viable; you have miscarried.”

Miscarriage. The best thing I can say about it is that the human body has an incredible ability to know what is viable and what is not. If it is not, the body will reject it in many cases and begin the process we affectionately call miscarriage. That’s sarcasm. It’s a defense mechanism to keep the thoughts from getting to me too deeply. Forgive me if that offends you.

In the span of a couple of years, I had three miscarriages, all before the eleven-week mark.

Each time the little pink lines showed a positive result, I would start nesting. Baby clothes were so easy to buy. Tiny outfits that fit neatly into small boxes. Baby blankets were also easy to buy. They were so soft and came in gentle colors. There was nothing unpleasant about them.

I made good money, and so did my husband, so I could spend easily, and spend I did. I think Pottery Barn named a wing after me. Then the bad news would come, like the stork of death, and I would cry my way through packing all the little things into a box. Then I would slide it to the very back of the closet so I would not have to see it by mistake. That cycle happened three times.

The last time it happened was the worst. It hit especially hard after I had heard my baby’s heartbeat. And then it was gone. That is as far as I can go with that. We stopped trying.

As life would have it, when you stop looking for something, it comes and finds you instead. I got pregnant for the fourth time.

Six weeks came, and the blood count looked good. Normal. This was the case with all the previous pregnancies.

At eight weeks, we were still in the green. At eleven weeks, we were still in the green zone, all systems go. We had a strong heartbeat, and the numbers were rising as they should. No alarms.

Week after week, we would go to the perinatologist. Each week, another ultrasound. And every week, the tiny sparks of hope would come to life, tempered only by extreme caution and the awareness that it could all go south at any time. But it didn’t.

Week 18 arrived, and it was my 18th visit to the perinatologist. This was the day. We were about to meet our baby on a screen and get a glimpse of its private parts. Odd, isn’t it? You actually can’t wait to see whether you have two legs or two and a mini me. By the way, if you’ve had an ultrasound, the visuals are really hard to make out. Good thing the doctor can point things out.

Confidence was improving. We went home, and I dug out the box of baby clothes. I wanted to inventory what I had purchased and donate the girl’s clothes I had in the box. I pulled out one piece at a time, gushing like any expectant mom. I had two piles going: one for boys’ clothing and blankets, and another geared more toward girls. When I had finished, I noticed something strangely amusing.

Every single item of clothing, every blanket, and even the few baby toys I had purchased all those years ago were for a boy. All for a boy, except for one lone dress. I showed my husband, and we both smiled. Somewhere deep in our subconscious, we had always known it would be a boy. He never cared, but I never imagined a girl, and here we were, ahead of the game with a tiny, fully furnished wardrobe.

Sometimes we get what we desire, albeit not when we want it, but when it’s right. What we went through before he came along made us appreciate our son all the more. Every tear shed, every piece of our hearts broken, was forgotten in an instant the day we finally met him.

(Originally published by Contemplate on Medium, July 2026)

#miscarriage #pregnancyloss #motherhood #babyclothes #healing