Tonight I Want to Cry

Tonight, as I reached over to turn off the lamp on my nightstand, I started to cry.

I told myself I wouldn't
and I could fight the tears
and I promised myself I wouldn't lose it
and I broke that promise. 
It was all in vain, once I thought of how close we would have been to everything at this point -- my last day of work, my baby shower, and the girls' due date.
And then, I told J that I was missing the girls a lot tonight and the tears just streamed down my face and onto my pillow.

I asked John to take down the girls' memory box, which is safely tucked away at the top of our closet. He asked if I was sure and I said yes, that I just needed to see the girls tonight. He gave in and as tired as he was, sat on his side of the bed as I carefully opened the box within the box we made -- it was the memory box that the hospital made us for our girls.

I'd seen this box several times before and I have gone through their contents so many times, but each time seems like it is the first.

The first thing I see in there:
They are so tiny, barely as big as my thumb.
I read some of measurements that the nurses wrote on there.
"Baby A" {Aubrey} was 7.8 ounces
"Baby B" {Finley} was 10.4 ounces

Through teary eyes, I joked with John that Finley was our little fatty... obv, she ate more. My feigned joking didn't last long, as I reached the bottom of the box to the last item... the one picture of my babies. Each time I look at that picture, my knowledge that they were, in fact, pretty babies {thank goodness!}, is reaffirmed.

After some reasoning with J {who kindly and yet so stubbornly insisted for me to stay with him in the room}, I took the box into the other room, the one we had originally already cleaned out to be turned into the nursery, 

and I sobbed.

There is still a large part of me that doesn't really believe the girls are gone, that the life we had begun to plan for ourselves and for our babies had dissipated in front of our eyes. The memory of my girls inside my belly, fluttering around, pinching me, doing somersaults, is still so fresh that this whole "them being gone" thing just seems so surreal.

I sobbed for a few minutes, held their memory box tightly, and slowly walked back to our bedroom.

And sometimes, a few moments like that is something I just need to do.

More to come . . . 



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