This afternoon I have been sorting baby clothes. I’ve gone through big bins containing pretty much every article of clothing Hannah’s ever worn, from the day she was born right on up. There are receiving blankets, teeny-tiny socks, and dozens of sleepers. But mostly, for me, there are memories.
I sorted through the clothes because most of what Hannah’s worn has been pink, flowery, and/or frilly. Since I know that this next baby will be a boy, I went spelunking for the few gender neutral items we had. Along the way I had to pass over so many things. Little shoes that I loved, the little purple outfit that I was so proud to dress her in for a visit to the midwives (she finally fit it!), the pants that I bought her when she was very small because I wanted her to wear ‘real’ clothes.
It made me sad, packing away all the little girl things. The odds are pretty good that I will never need them again. These precious baby things will likely be passed along down the line to someone else with a little girl. I am crying again, thinking of it all. Probably no other baby of mine will wear the special dress I chose for Hannah’s dedication, or my favourite little pink pantsuit. And knowing that few of the clothes that will work for Jacob held special meaning for me.
I know that down the road I will likely mourn Jacob’s little outfits in the same way. The overalls I adored, his first pair of shoes, the first clothes I bought just for him. I don’t think that my emotional outburst is because I am sad to have a boy. I think it’s because I am sad to see my little girl grow up, and today I have come face to face with the reality that she will do that, she will never be small again, she will outgrow all the relics of her childhood. And I am not ready to part with these things that’s she’s shedding along the way.
Of course, I don’t know that I won’t have another little girl one day. I could. But even if I do, I will certainly find myself back at this place again. The place where I need to acknowledge that the past, my child’s infancy, is over. Whether I like it or not. Whether I’m ready or not. It’s tricky, this motherhood business, wanting so much for my baby to grow up and being sad when she does. Toiling so hard to put yourself out of a job.
I will admit, though, I am very glad to be done with the night wakings and the diapers and the continual neediness of infancy. And I’m a little scared to be undertaking it again imminently. Maybe having kids grow up isn’t so bad. It’s just that there are moments when you realize that it’s all happening so fast, and you can never get it back. Not even the good parts.
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