On Owen’s birthday, I decided that I’d finally go through ALL the baby stuff we had upstairs and get it ready for donation.
I’ve been through what was in the attic before, mind you, and put them into tubs, with the idea of passing them along to other people when they had babies. Most of Owen’s baby clothing, for example, went to my best friend when she had her son, with a note, I do not want these back!
But my friends and family are largely done having babies – especially first babies. And I had a LOT of stuff that I needed to get rid of.
I’ve been hanging onto it and saying, Well, we’ll just have a yard sale and sell it all! for like three years now. Long enough to know that the yard sale thing is just a smoke screen. The idea of selling pieces one by one… well, it’s kind of torturous. Even if it means I could make some money off it.
So instead, I set up a donation pickup from a local organization. I liked their mission, and I loved that they’d come get the bags of stuff off my front porch.
Pickup date was today.
Going through the items upstairs, even on Owen’s birthday, seemed right. It went quicker than I expected, even. I smiled when I saw some of the items again, remember how much he loved a specific toy. But it felt SO good to purge, too. It was packed up and ready to go within an hour of me going through what remained.
I did keep some of his clothing; the stuff I am really attached to. The preemie outfit he wore his first week. A couple teeny diapers. The cloth diapers with his name embroidered on them. His robeez. Some hand-knit blankets. His favorite blanket from daycare.
But everything else – the playmat, the infant tub, the toys, my pump, the bottle rack, the diaper bag, the boppy, his crib bedding – was packed up to go.
Jeff and I brought it downstairs yesterday in advance of the pickup. We piled it into the front hall moving some of the bigger things out of the way so we could get it out the front door.
And I stepped back and took this picture.
As I stood there, looking at it, grief washed over me.
He is my last baby.
I think it was the crib bedding and boppy that did it. I remember putting him in the crib when he was first born, and marveling at how TINY he was. Gosh, he was so, so little when he was born. Three weeks early, 5lbs14oz – a veritable peanut.
Just yesterday, he stretched along his full size bed and announced proudly, Mom, I am so tall, I can reach the end of my bed!
The boppy… Well. I had a surprisingly rewarding experience with nursing. I was home with O for 6 months, and that boppy literally went everywhere with me and him. I brought it when we left the house. I had it in every room in the house with me. I laid him down on it when he was milk-drunk and tired. I propped him up on it when he was first learning how to sit up. I took this picture of him – my absolute FAVORITE baby picture of him – on that thing.
And it’s funny, because I could write about my vivid memories of him in his infant tub. Or on the playmat. Or playing with the plastic keys. Or frowning and reaching for the stuffed toys.
You get the picture.
It’s just really, really hard letting it all go.
Thing is: There hasn’t been a baby in this house in a long time. There will be no more babies in this house. And 99% of the time I am in a place of peace with it. I love our life now and I am SO grateful we have him.
It’s really hard to let go of that last baby.