Laundry

I just don’t understand how the simplest of tasks have now become the hardest. Things that I used to do so easily or things that used to bring me calm or enjoyment can’t even be attempted now. I used to enjoy driving. I used to enjoy reading. I used to enjoy yoga. I used to enjoy folding laundry.

People may think I’m odd, but I actually use to enjoy folding laundry. I hate washing dishes, but I loved folding laundry. I liked how I could pull up on the floor, get my glass of wine and a good TV show and start my piles. You can actually see progress when you fold laundry. Putting the laundry away may be a different story! I liked how organized and clean it felt. After I had Nolan, I started enjoying folding laundry even more. I know. Crazy. Of course the amount of laundry increased significantly, but that didn’t stop me. Who doesn’t love tiny baby onesies and pajamas and pants and shorts? OH! And the baby hats! The best. I would fold his little outfits and smile thinking about the day he wore each of them. Thinking about how cute he looked. Thinking about what he actually did on that day. Thinking about what he may do the next time he wears it. You can ask Brett, I’m a bit obsessed. I’m pretty sure in the past two and a half years Brett has only picked Nolan’s outfit less than 10 times. Nolan’s outfit is out and ready well before I even consider what is I’ll wear the next day. I just LOVE baby clothes!

When we were preparing for the baby’s arrival, Brett pulled all of the labeled tubs of clothes out of the crawl space. I went through each of the.m organizing. I organized the newborn tubs. I separated boys, girls and gender neutral clothes. I reminisced. I was reminded when Nolan wore each of the different items. I cried. A lot. I loved it. I was so excited knowing that the baby would get to soon wear these clothes. We would soon get to make new memories with another baby in all of these adorable outfits.

 

(A girl’s onesie, just in case… and Nolan showing off how much he has grown!)

Now, now there are piles of laundry scattered around our house. Piles. I haven’t folded a single item since we came home. The baskets are overflowing with clothes. I can’t tell you which one holds clean clothes or dirty clothes. The dryer is full, again. I can’t do it. Simon’s clothes are supposed to be in there. I am supposed to be folding tiny baby onesies. I am supposed to have a baby, here with me, making new memories in each of these outfits. I am supposed to see Simon wearing the same clothes that Nolan wore. I’m supposed to be smiling. I’m supposed to be thinking about Simon’s daily outfits. I’m supposed to be planning what he will wear each day setting them out for the next morning. I’m supposed to be tired because I have a baby waking me up in the middle of the night, not exhausted because of the nightmares.

This may seem silly to those that have not experienced this type of loss.  Why can’t you just buck up and fold the damn laundry? No.  It’s not that easy.  After breaking both of your legs, you don’t just get right up and walk again. After your house burns down, you don’t just starting living in it again. After… get my point?

Now, now all of the labeled tubs are back in the crawl space. All of the onesies are perfectly folded waiting to be used. In the crawl space. It pains me knowing this.

Life after the death of your child is then and now. Before and After. I am not who I used to be, and I grieve that too. I guess I need to start washing dishes. Ugh.


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