So, there is this walk this weekend.
It is a memorial thing, fundraiser for stillbirth awareness. I threw my heart into this walk. I bought all these tshirts for our friends and family. I carefully picked a font and desgined the front and back of these shirts. I printed out the iron transfers and made 12 tshirts. Well, I made 13 because I royally screwed one up. (Of course, it was the last one I made. I must have been getting lazy.)
I sat back and surveyed my work. I am very proud of these shirts.
Why? They are stupid shirts. Why do I care so much if people wear them? I am fearful people won't. Or will think they are stupid. Or will cover them up with jackets.
I care so much because I can't DO anything for my son. I cannot give him a bath. I cannot kiss him. I cannot hug him. Sometimes, it is even hard to love him. That is hard to type. Of course I love my son. But my heart is so full of pain, there is little room for love. I am having a hard time loving anyone right now.
So, these shirts. It was something I could do. I have found a few things here and there I can DO for him. I bought a huge memory box for his things. I made him a memorial website. We spead his ashes. I blog about him. I got a tattoo in his memory.
Each one of these things is my heart and soul. Each one of these things I see as a replacement for story time. For bath time. For sleepless night and endless days and stressed out moments.
So, those 13 shirts. 13 pieces of me. 13 things I never got to do with him. Eventually, I am going to run out of things to do for him. Grief is the only thing I have to hold now.