The Shirt He Wore When He Fell in Love – ryan

From the moment we opened our eyes in the morning, our minds could only focus on one thing: our newborn daughter.

My husband gingerly helped me out of bed and into the shower. His devotion and tenderness, especially newly after my C-section, meant the world to me. From there, it was a checklist of the most basic tasks before we could go, and still, we could never leave fast enough. Let the dogs out. Pump. Quick shower. Throw on anything within reach. Did I take my medication? My husband filled two coffee mugs. We were out the door, in the car, and on the road before the sun came up. Those 30 miles seemed like 300. If there was ever a time to wish for teleportation, it was during those days our premature baby spent in the NICU.

All we wanted was to be with our girl. We had an overflowing closet, yet we washed the same load of laundry week after week and picked the same tired outfits from that basket. I realize now our minds could not fully focus on anything else; we remained on autopilot. One of those early mornings, my husband grabbed a faded purple Minnesota Vikings shirt from the pile.

That old shirt was a staple around the house: for yard work, lounging at home, and usually to sleep in. I’d nabbed it myself many nights to fit over my growing baby bump during pregnancy. It wasn’t anything special. A simple cotton tee for casual wear. One you might cut into rags after a year or two if it was still in shape even for that. We never knew it would be worth keeping.

That old shirt came from a gas station of all places, years ago. It was a freebie we received from buying a handful of scratch-off lottery tickets during football season. I remember grabbing them at the last minute to add to the gifts for my classroom staff. “I hit the jackpot teaching with you!” the cards to my paraprofessionals would read. The cashier excitedly stated, “You get a free T-shirt with your purchase!”

I kind of laughed, thinking she was joking around. She smiled brightly and held up a tee with “SKOL” emblazoned on the front—the motto of the Minnesota Vikings football team. I asked if she wanted to keep it for herself, but she declined saying she wasn’t allowed to. I brought it home to my husband like a grand prize, and he truly thought of it as such. A simple gift for a simple man.

He has always been mellow, soft-spoken, and introverted. This is why I can still clearly picture how he tenderly cradled his baby when the nurse gently laid her in his arms for the first time. My even-keeled husband was suddenly overcome with emotion—and rightfully so. Tears filled both our eyes. I witnessed one of those magical moments that you can’t really describe, you can only feel with every inch of your heart. And at that moment, he was wearing that old shirt.

It was a welcome calm beneath the wires, the beeping machines, and the busy hands of sweet nurses. It all melted away when he held her. He whispered her name, and she opened her eyes to catch a peek of her daddy, the world’s greatest. We could have stayed right there for hours. I snapped a quick picture to capture the moment.

Neither of us was dressed nicely that day. He sported that grungy old tee, and me? I couldn’t tell you what I had on. And you know what? It truly doesn’t matter one bit.

I know he holds onto that shirt because it’s the one he was wearing when he first held his baby girl.

The bright blue lights lining the hospital’s top perimeter were beacons to us. “We’re coming for you baby girl,” like a silent prayer uttered each of those pre-dawn mornings. We could take a deep breath seeing her swaddled up and sleeping peacefully in her isolette. She was safe, and we were there with her, surrounded by relief with each reunion . . . no matter what clothes were on our backs.

I sit now in the calm of our living room; the volume of the television is low. Still, I can make out the telltale whistles of a football game in the background. Our daughter, now a preschooler, has been tucked in for an hour. I pick up that old, worn purple shirt and pause a moment, looking at the cracked lettering. How many times have I thought about throwing it away? I fold it neatly and stack it with the others in the clean laundry pile. My husband glances my way, and we share a soft smile. Like sweet memories, there are some things too precious to part with.