Pink Things Redux

a story of hope in four parts

Note: I published a version of this in my September 2022 (no. 008) issue of my newsletter. If you were signed up with my Flodesk email list, this will be (mostly) old news, but I’m working on consolidating select previous posts onto this space. If you’re new here, welcome! I envision this to be a space to talk about all things home (books! family! recipes! renovations!) + all things making (the creative life 🩷 )

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Part One

“Do you have a box of pink things hidden in a closet somewhere?” My editor writes this in the margins of an essay I’ve just written where I reference a condition my husband calls Greedy for Pink Things.

The essay is about having an all-boy family and how even though that is a dream come true in its own right, I find myself holding out hope for a baby girl. I find myself grasping for a sign—specifically, a blush swaddle from a Solly Baby giveaway—some physical marker pointing to a possible future.

So—even though I’ve boxed all of my maternity clothes for donation; even though my youngest boy, my most recent baby, is not even three months old; even though we haven’t yet decided if we want a fourth baby—when my editor asks about whether I have box of hidden pink things, I think, that is a genius idea.

And so I begin the collection.

The first item I acquire is a pointelle onesie with delicate lace trim from the “extras” table at MOPS. I find footie pajamas in a neon floral print with faux ballet slipper detail on clearance at Target and add it to my cart. A local mom offers up a brand new rose floral romper from the Baby Gap for free on the neighborhood Facebook sales page. I comment immediately: “Interested!”

Piece by piece, I fill up a plastic Container store box with tiny pink things. 

Only my husband knows about this secret box that lives in the far corner of our closet. It stays there, where it hides in the shadows for the next three years.

Part Two

In March, we try for our fourth (and last) baby. Eight weeks after the first positive pregnancy test, I take a blood test—because I’m now considered geriatric—and elect to find out our baby’s sex. I’m at my son’s little league game on a Tuesday afternoon, when I get the email from my midwife, the same midwife who cared for me during my pregnancies with my last two boys. “Drumroll, please,” she writes. “.... It’s a GIRL!”

After the game, I beeline to our closet. Still in shock, I pull down my box of pink things and set it on the queen size guest room bed in what will soon be the nursery. As the sunlight casts glimmers across the bed, I pull out each item and my mind flashes back to each hopeful moment when I thought, maybe, someday.

Part Three

On the last Saturday in August, my sisters throw me the last baby shower I’ll ever have—a dreamy backyard sprinkle at golden hour. The theme? Pink things.

They come over with the most beautiful arrangements of ivory and blush pink—tiny pink roses, white dahlias, sprays of greenery in little pink glasses. They cover tables with raspberry pink linens topped with lace and set out votive candles and rose gold lanterns. They place a floral printed metal box with notecards for guests to write “prayers for baby Hannah.” I wear a floor length dusty rose dress with eyelet flutter sleeves and a deep sweetheart neckline. The thank you gifts are miniature bottles of rosé and heart shaped sugar cookies frosted a shade of muted bubblegum pink.

The morning of the shower, I go through bins filled with all the baby boy clothes I saved, in case we had our fourth boy. It feels like the end of an era. I bag them according to size, and set them aside to send home with one of my friends after the event. In the cleared out closet, I hang child-size pink hangers.

That afternoon, I soak up every moment of the sunset sprinkle. I’m floored with gratitude for the women around the table, for the beauty that my sisters have created in my backyard, for this unexpected dream come true. 

Because what was once a collection of hidden hopes stashed deep in my closet has turned into an expectant celebration with family, friends, and—of course—piles and piles of pink things.

Part Four

Hannah Hope, 6 months old—