I finally did it.
I had been wanting to gather my babies' things in one place for a long time, but the boxes had just been sitting empty for several months. For awhile, I thought Paul and I needed to do it together, so I put it off. The time just had to be right. And why it felt right between loads of laundry, I don't know.
Sorting cards that were sent to us made me cry. Because of the kind words. Because there are fewer after the second miscarriage than the first. Because there were "congratulations on your pregnancy" cards for both of them, but not this current one. I cried because there are so few things in my first baby's box. I cried because I don't have a picture of Paul and me from when I was pregnant with my second baby.
I cried because this is my life. My babies died. And that will always hurt.
When I bought the memory boxes, I found a third, smaller one that says hope inside a heart. I didn't buy it with the intention that it would become another memory box. It's a hope box. And so in it right now are the three positive HPSs showing the good news of this pregnancy. The hope box is a good place for them. At least it's better than my underwear drawer.
I restacked the boxes on the little shelf and set my Willow Tree "Promise" figurine on top. Paul gave it to me for our anniversary one year, and it had the shelf all to itself until the babies' boxes needed a place. This has been the arrangement for several months, but I had never noticed that it represents our family now. Paul and I with our three babies. All the tangible memories I have from the first two are gathered together, with a box of hope for this baby.
The boxes sit in our bedroom where we see them whenever we walk in or out. They don't need to be on display elsewhere; they are just for us to share if we choose. Their nearness is comforting.