When I put you in clothes meant for her

Dear Sadie,

Last week I put you in one of my favorite outfits for the first time. It was cute, striped gray leggings, with a matching onesie that says "love." Over the top goes the cutest little peacoat that could ever have existed. I love this outfit. I have loved it since the moment I bought it, 2 years ago. But I did't buy this outfit for you.

I bought it for your sister, Madelyn. It was on our 1 year marriage anniversary. We went to Target to each pick out a new outfit for ourselves as an anniversary gift, but I couldn't stay away from the baby clothes. I saw that peacoat and thought it would be the cutest outfit to take Madelyn around London in. But 8 months later, we walked the streets of London without her.

I get a strange feeling when I put you in clothes meant for her. I get so happy that I finally have a baby to fill up these precious outfits, but my heart aches a bit. Not because you don't look adorable in them, and not because I don't want you here to be wearing them, but they should be hand-me-downs. They should be a little worn. They should be used. But they aren't. These outfits are over 2 years old, and they are brand spanking new.

You'd think after 9 months of carrying you and 6 months of you being here, I would have the whole thing worked out, but I don't. The truth is, when I put you in those outfits, I usually feel a little guilty. I am so happy you are here. I am so obsessed with you. I cannot imagine a world without you in it. You are everything to me, and I love you more than I ever could have thought possible. Dressing you up in outfits and taking pictures brings me so much joy, but then my heart starts to ache for the daughter I didn't get to dress up. The daughter whose outfits I packed away while we waited for you. The daughter who I never really knew. 

I guess I feel guilty because life with you is so wonderful and happy that sometimes I go days without thinking even about Madelyn. Which is normal. And healthy. But it doesn't mean I have learned how to process it all yet. I know she's happy. I know she wants you to be wearing the outfits I cried over as we packed them into boxes, but now that I know how life with a daughter is, I get sad that I didn't get to have those same moments with her that I get to have with you. I'm sad that you don't have an older sister her fawning over you. I'm sad that I'm starting to forget her.

However, I am learning how to reconcile my grief of Madelyn, with my love of you. I get little reminders here and there that although life is going on, she will always be here with us. One of those reminders are the outfits. I am working hard to find the beauty in every bit of her we still have here. They are a little piece of Madelyn. Sure she didn't wear them, but they were meant for her, so technically they are still hand-me-downs, and your precious body fills them up and gives them life and purpose. They aren't sitting in a cardboard box in our storage unit. They are on the most beautiful little girl, right where they should be.

I feel more pieces of Madelyn when my sister tells me that my sweet niece told her friend to not be upset that his kite blew away, because it goes up to Heaven so Maddie can play with it. I feel them when my friends also suffer through baby loss, and I can give them some form of comfort or peace. I feel them when I visit the temple, and know that we are sealed to her for eternity. She's everywhere, and one day, I will tell you all about her. Then you can carry pieces of her with you too.

You have healed me heart and soul, Sadie. You have replaced the months of crying with prayers of gratitude that it all led to you. You plugged up the hole I thought was impossible to fill. You are the biggest blessing I could possibly imagine. I know I don't need to feel guilty that I love you so much. You have stretched my heart so big, there's room for both of you. So I'll remember that when I put you in clothes meant for her, and thank my lucky stars I have you two little girls I love so much.

Love always,

                  Mom