I don’t have a baby any more. And I don’t have one on the way (and I probably never will). And all of this is made even more obvious in that I am going through my children’s tiny baby clothes (again) to keep only the essentially sentimental. I thought it would be easy enough because many of them will go to wee ones that I know and love, but I was wrong. And it makes me feel like a crazy person.
I loved dressing the children when they were younger. I don’t get to dress them so much these days, but I still buy all of the clothes, so for the most part, I still have a say in what they wear (though what combinations they are worn in is painfully up to them). I have a boy and a girl, so I get to experience plenty of current kiddo fashion. Many of the clothes that I put them in were cozy, second-hand items, so it’s not like I’m attached because it’s an outfit I dropped major bucks on. Plus, I didn’t keep everything they ever wore anyway; I passed a lot on to girlfriends and local foster kiddos. And then there was the great loss of 2010 in which an entire load of my favorites were thrown out with the dryer that my husband had just replaced. The answer to a question like, “Can you grab me the brown corduroys out of the dryer?” was never responded to with as much drama as I mustered over that one, I’m sure. But, it also didn’t kill me. So, what is it about the tiny clothes that I have left that have me so emotional?!
Do I want to be pregnant again? Not particularly. Pregnancy and childbirth were not so kind to me. And in all the ways that you measure whether you want or can even have another child, our sum is currently (and has been for some time) “no.” So why am I still clutching so dearly to inanimate objects?
Honestly, I think it’s the last evidence of how tiny they once were. Like a measuring stick to show me that I was once a mother to babies, the tiny onesies and leggings all show me where I’ve been. I have the memories of so many cherished moments, but I can’t really feel the weight of Lucas in his tiny fleece bear suit on a cold, spring morning or how Amelia’s chubber legs used to stick out of her bubble rompers all summer. I have photos, I have videos, and I have clothes, but I do not have or know my babies as they once were. If you handed me a 9 month old of my very own, I would have some relearning to do. I know my children in this moment as the wonderful, funny, energetic, imaginative kids that they are now; right now. And, they don’t need me like they once did. Not that I want them to be babies again, but it would be nice if every once in a while I could rewind to a day where all I did was rock, cuddle, and coo and it wasn’t because they’d thrown up on me all morning.
All things considered, I know in my heart that it’s definitely time to do some more letting go. Maybe I can start with socks…
