The Onesie He Never Wore: Getting Through The Holidays
Brilliant sunbeams awaken my eyes.
It is a beautiful May day and I have a mission.
The night before I scoured the local papers and the internet for garage sale’s advertising baby cloths. Coffee and cash in hand I charge (waddle) out the front door and into my petite Ford Focus. My destination is a nearby neighborhood, the one with the big houses. Usually I see garage sale-ing as a slow and social event but today I will go it alone. Speed is necessary for this mission. I am after baby boy cloths, an entire years’ worth if possible. With a thirteen-month-old bouncing baby girl at home, I doubt that a baby shower is in our family’s future.
Arriving at the first house, I see what I have feared most, the enemy of my mission. Grandmothers. Holding my breath, I dive in. Big belly. Pointy elbows. Nesting instincts. I may not be a grandmother, but I am still a force to be reckoned with. House after house, the piles in the back seat of my Focus begins to climb. Finally, I come to the last house. Two Thanksgiving onesies await me. “Perfect”, I think. Thanksgiving will be Kuyper’s first major holiday. As I waddle to the car I dream about Thanksgiving, about snuggling my little boy. He will be the cute boy, in the cute onesie and I cannot wait to see him.
Once home I take stock of the days plunder.
NB boys: sleepers, pants, shirts, socks. Check.
Three-month boys: sleepers, pants, shirts, socks. Check.
Six-month boys: sleepers, pants, shirts, socks. Check.
Nine-month boys: sleepers, pants, shirts, socks. Check.
Twelve-month boys: sleepers, pants, shirts, socks. Check.
Total cost: $65
Mission accomplished.
I wash the cloths.
I put them away.
Two weeks later, I deliver Kuyper stillborn.
We have a funeral.
We place him in the ground.
I put the cloths in a plastic bin.
I store it in the basement.
Maybe it is meant for another little boy. Maybe.
I awake with a start in the stark dark of the early morning hours. The box in the basement, which has gone largely unnoticed over the last few months seems to haunt me now.
It is Thanksgiving Day. My son is in a grave instead of in his Thanksgiving onesie. After rummaging through our storage area, I return to our bedroom with the onesie in hand. I lay back down and place the onesie on my heart. Wet faced and tired, I fall asleep, no longer haunted. I sleep peacefully, as if he is safe in my arms.
Six years pass. A newborn, baby boy in our extended family is in foster care.
He is about to be adopted. After all the years spent in storage, the garage sale cloths are ready to serve their purpose. I package them up and take the box to the Post Office but first I hold back a onesie (a Thanksgiving onesie) that I put it in Kuyper’s memory box. Even though I cry a little as I leave the Post Office, I am thankful that God has allowed a part of our grief to be turned into good.
Dear Mama or Papa,
The first holidays after the loss of a child are hard. Hopes of the past may seem a cruel memory.
Thanksgiving 2020 will be my eighth Thanksgiving as a bereaved mother. Will you believe me when I tell you it won’t always be this hard? It will be different but not like the first year or two.
Would you promise me you will take care of yourself? Be kind to yourself?
Cry when you need to? Say, “No” when you need to? Visit your child’s grave or a place of memory when you need to? And always remember that this pain and grief is not a sign of weakness (No matter what Aunt Karen may say)?
