By Amanda Nelson 
For years, every time I pulled into the garage, there they were: bins of baby clothes and toys that stood as a reminder that we hadn’t been able to have another baby.
As our firstborn grew, I washed and folded all his clothes, bagged them according to size, and lovingly placed them in these bins because I hoped, I knew we would have more babies.
Over time, we added bins. And over time, we added a heaviness to our hearts as we experienced multiple miscarriages. The bins remained.
Clothes that were captured in cherished photos. Toys that longed to play music again. Books whose pages begged to be read. And in between the fabrics and textures and joyful patterns, were the hopes that we would be blessed with another child to love.
Some days, my heart couldn’t bear to open the garage and have those bins stare down at me. I’d park in the driveway or the street simply to avoid the glaring reminder.
But, after years of trying, we were finally blessed with a healthy pregnancy and found out early on that it was a girl. Down came the bins of boy clothes.
I kept clothes that were especially meaningful. Ones that would look cute with an oversized bow added to the outfit. The rest were lovingly gifted as hand-me-downs to our nephew, and I’m lucky enough to watch him grow into clothes that bring back the best memories of my son.
The silent resignation that this pregnancy would be our last allowed us to make space in our garage. What I didn’t realize at the time was that by making space in the garage, we made space for joy again. The reminders of our failed attempts to grow our family were no longer welcome in our garage or our hearts.
Now, there’s room in our garage for toys, sports equipment, bikes, and more. Instead of moments and memories frozen in time, begging for new life to be breathed into them, there’s evidence of our real life happening.
by Tajuana Paige 
