Wardrobe malfunction

The malfunction wasn't comparable to Ms. Jackson's now-infamous public fashion faux pas, but it was shocking enough to make me do a double take nonetheless.

I came face to face with a picture of an adorable, blue-eyed, blonde-haired infant, whose face will grace the cover of a car seat user manual that's printed where I work. I see cute babies all the time, but I don't usually see them and immediately think of Ryan - but I also never see any of them wearing the cute clothes that my Ryan would've been outfitted in.

The precious little tot in the picture was wearing the same plaid shirt that was one of the first items I wanted to put on Ryan. Instead, here was someone else's three-month-old wearing it while Ryan's is still hanging, unused, in his closet.

It's shit like this from which I cannot escape.

I certainly could never expect parents to get clothing clearance from me before dressing their babies. (I'm not completely certifiable, after all.) But, even with that understanding and logic, I still have lots of times where I'm reduced to tears when I see what should've been for Ryan, and when it seems that others are playing out the life I wanted so desperately for Ryan and still want for my husband and myself.

It's just a stupid shirt; I know that. But, in my mind, it's a direct link to my baby. It's as if that anonymous infant was truly wearing Ryan's shirt instead of one that was mass produced for thousands of babies everywhere. And, in a weird way, when I looked at the picture of that mystery infant, looking amazingly similar to my own lost son, I felt more gypped than I have in a long time. It felt like some invisible arm grabbed the back of my head and slammed it into the dirt, giving me an unforgiving reminder of how much it aches to have empty arms.

I really don't need those sad reminders of what I lost. I know better than anyone what's missing from my life.