My wardrobe is divided into two categories: Things that remind me of my miscarriages and infertility struggles and things that don't.
Seventy percent of my closet makes me feel sick to my stomach. I know I’m not the only one. Most people feel disgusted because they have outgrown their clothes, constantly strategizing how to fit into their skinny jeans again.
I still fit into my skinny jeans. And I hate it.
My wardrobe is divided into two categories: Things that remind me of my miscarriages and infertility struggles and things that don’t.
In the pile of genuinely great clothing that gives me sweaty flashbacks is a black and white striped sweater made of the most wonderful blend of cotton and magic. It is the perfect weight for Southern California. It is the sweater I wore when I was recovering from my hysterectomy. It served me well then. Today, I want to burn it in the park next to my house while blaring some old-school Nine Inch Nails songs.
The sweater is a victim. Guilty by association. There are 40 more just like it in my closet. I can’t bring myself to throw them out. I don’t want to get rid of them. I want to wear them again and not break down the moment I see them. I want to go back to the day I bought them, before I used them to cover up my scars.
Today, I did it: I chose a white silk shirt with flowers on it. A shirt that I pined over for weeks and stalked until it went on sale. I used to pair it with cute skinny jeans or a black denim skirt and head out with a spring in my Stuart Weitzmans. Today, I pulled the shirt over my head, tucked it into my new high-waisted jeans, pulled on my boots, and walked out the door with all my might.
My boots felt like they were 100 pounds each. But I made it to the car and all the way to my office for the day — the neighborhood coffee shop. I was so proud of myself for taking the shirt back.
And now I’m in a cafe working on a pilot script and I just noticed a spot of blood on the waist of the shirt. Damn. I wore it when I went to the doctor, when I had been bleeding for 43 days straight. When the doctor examined me, I bled on the bottom of the shirt. I took it to the dry cleaner and thought the stain was gone. It must have blended in with the red and pink floral pattern.
I forgave the shirt, but the shirt won’t let me forget. The blood is a little faded, though. Maybe next time I wear it, my memories will be a little faded too. I’m not going to throw it out just yet.
Jana Petrosini is a mom who gets her butt kicked by her identical twin toddlers on the regular these days but loves every second of it. She is forever indebted to her amazing surrogate for bringing her baby girls into this world. When she's not being hugged, slobbered on, screamed at, or bitten by her kids (she's working on that last one), she’s a writer for children's television. She’s currently working on a few projects in the TV space along with “writing” her first picture book. She's made two batches of muffins in her life and is quite proud of them. And though her husband is a magnificent dad, she's tired of him asking, "Which twin am I holding?"