Last night I snuggled close to Glen, looked him deeply in the eyes and broke the news.
“Today, I bought myself a little boy toy.”
It’s a testament to the seriousness of the situation that he didn’t snicker or even make a “that’s what she said” joke.
I bought a little stuffed dog. It barks when you push the tummy. It’s blue.
After years and years of pink, purple and whatever material has the most sparkle, I shopped in a new section of the store. I never intended to raise girly-girls, but they like what they like. So I steer clear of dinosaurs and cars and super heroes and anything blue. Until yesterday.
I justified that I could give it away if it doesn’t work out. I hastily explained that it could just as easily be for one of our nephews.
But I was lying.
Because I bought it for him. It’s his. I wanted to have a connection to him.
Glen was right to ask the questions he did.
“Is is too late? Have you given your heart away already?”
So here’s me, buying blue, because hearts can’t be protected. Not mine anyway.
When you’ve lost more than one child, you learn this. Even if this adoption doesn’t work out, I will need something to hold onto, something to mourn. So I bought myself a little boy toy.