When I die, I want to be buried in my bathrobe. No, I'm not kidding. It means that much to me. (Plus, if you think about it, it's pretty practical).
Seven years ago, I told Mike that all I wanted for Christmas was a soft, cozy bathrobe. He picked out the perfect one. I tried it on to make sure it fit, then I hung it in our closet for the "big wait." I think I must've looked at that robe and run my hand along its soft fabric every single day.
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I finally wore the robe for the first time nearly two months later. That's when Mike and I walked the halls of the hospital waiting (and hoping) for Will to arrive. I would later rock Will to sleep during those seemingly endless cold winter nights - both of us wrapped up in the fuzzy green robe.
Over the years, I can't count how many Saturday mornings Will and I have spent cuddled up on the couch watching cartoons - but, I can tell you I was definitely wearing the robe. There have also been the Saturday nights when Mike's been out of town and Will and I put on our pajamas and watch a movie. On those nights, the robe is there too.
Sure, I've got another robe. It's lighter in weight and it's a happy pink color. Every time I've tried to wear it, Will says to me "Mama, where is the other robe? I like that one better."
I've always wondered if he instinctively knows the story behind the robe. I've never told him I wanted that robe simply to welcome him into the world.
This Christmas morning, no doubt, I'll be wearing the old green robe when we sit under the tree oohing and ahhhing over our gifts. Sure, it's faded with time, in spots it's a bit nappy- but, the memories woven into that fabric bring a smile to all of our faces.
So, when I tell my husband I'm taking it to the grave, sure, Mike laughs. But he knows. It's a gift I will never part with ... ever.
Julia is a reporter for WRAL-TV and the mother of a grade schooler. She writes monthly for Go Ask Mom.