They really aren’t that full

My hands. They aren’t that full.

They used to be full. They used to be really full. I’d have to make two trips down to the minivan (yes, we got a minivan to accommodate the gaggle of children we had) each morning before taking the twins to daycare.

I’d buckle the babies in their car seats, and leave them on the kitchen floor while I ran out to the van with the diaper bag, my purse, my water, the bag of bottles, and the keys. Then back up to the house to grab the babies, and back down to the van. Once we arrived at daycare, I’d make the trip in lugging everything at once. Carrying two infant seats, diaper bag over my shoulder, bottle cooler bag around my wrist, banging in to the canopy of the car seat that was in that same hand.

So back then, my hands were full.

Now, heading in to daycare (we moved Avery to Henry’s daycare after Oliver died), I only have one car seat, one bottle bag, and then Henry walking beside me. Yesterday morning, someone held the front door of the daycare for me and said that I had my hands full. I just gave a half smile. They should have seen me before.

Author: unaffected

Infertile mother to a 4-year-old and a 1-year-old twinless twin. Surviving motherhood after infant loss.

7 thoughts on “They really aren’t that full”

  1. I’ve been reading through all of this, holding back on commenting because I’ve been without words. This post complied me to say something. Because I have those memories too. The multiple trips, the juggling everything. All of it.

    I’m so sorry. My heart is broken for you losing your precious boy.


  2. Here from Mel’s Roundup this week. This post. Beautiful and heartbreaking. And I am so, so, so very sorry for your loss. Sending you so much love through the computer… and wishing it could actually be enough to bring you peace. You are in my thoughts.



  3. This is such a beautiful, heartbreaking post. Beautiful in how it paints a picture in so few words. Heartbreaking in why your arms aren’t full, in the contrast between the Before and the After. I’m so sorry for your loss.


    1. I didn’t know what to write, could not commiserate, could not comfort, I’m just a stranger on the internet (Mel sent me over here) but I want you to know I saw Oliver’s picture – his beautiful face, so perfect – but I will chant for Oliver. I’m a Buddhist and if it means anything at all, that I can do for him. There’s a part in our prayers where we chant for our lost ones, so I will add his name. You have other children to live for, but I really don’t think certain holes will ever heal, you just learn to live with them, scar tissue and all. No matter how deep, how devastating the grief, please vow to endure. You are so special to the world and to your family and you will always be Oliver’s mum.


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