A couple months ago I was looking at the kitchen drawer which stores my kitchen towels and bibs for The Chief. Bibs he no longer uses because as I grow as a mother, I find less need to worry about curry on his onesie. Now we spray, splat and soil onesies with creative eating habits and call the results art rather than stain.
But . . .
On that day a couple of months ago when I looked at those bibs I stopped.
What do I do with those bibs?
Will they sit for years in that drawer waiting for another baby to protect from gooey breakfast messes before church? Will they remain forever hoping--like the toy solider--for another baby that never comes? Will they always call out, reminding me of my hopes for a second chubby neck to tie the bib strings around?
On that day a couple of months ago I thought about throwing the bibs out. I concluded bibs are not such a financial investment that simply throwing them away would ruin our credit score. If a second baby were to ever come along bibs could be replaced. So why not send them off with celebration and ceremony. Thank you hard working bibs! Thank you for dabbing my baby's dangling drool when he was teething! May you decompose with spots of stains in the sunshine of the everlasting landfill!
On that day a couple of months ago bibs became a symbol of my fertility anxieties. Was my pregnancy a one time blessing never to be refilled? Would I get another chance? When was too early to start hoping again? Was it okay to even want when I already had?
In due time I got my answer.
We're keeping the bibs.