As the store owned lifted each item out of the container and examined it for stains or defects (of which there were none, of course -- I wore these clothes for only one pregnancy, after all) I was consumed by simultaneous feelings of warm nostalgia and bitter sadness. Each shirt, skirt, and pair of paneled pants represented a time when I was naive but optimistic. I was a working woman with a miraculous life growing inside of me. I loved my maternity clothes. Wearing them made me feel special. Today, as I watched this woman toss each item of clothing into a pile and mentally calculate the value of my happy memories, I felt lonely. Like an opportunity was being taken from me. Like I had lost my chance and I had to give up the trophy.
It doesn't bother me so much that another pregnant woman is going to wear my maternity clothes. Actually, it may sound completely selfish, but I'd be lying if I didn't say that I was more comfortable with the thought of a stranger wearing my stuff rather than a friend or relative. If I was going to let go of these clothes, I wanted them as far away from me as possible. And now that they're out of my house, I'm relieved. When that first consignment check arrives in the mail, I'll spend it on something special for myself. Something personal. Because only I'll truly know what I had to give up to earn that money.
