I had one of those sobering (read: reduced to tears) mommy nights the other day. My babies are growing up and getting older. With school starting next week, it is my ritual to start with the oldest boy and go through his clothes. I pass down to his next youngest brother what is too small and still wearable, and toss what is stained or ratty. Then I do the same thing with the next boy. Everything was going great until I got to Ryker's clothes. It was then I realized why I have been putting this off for so long. I have no one to pass his "too smalls" down to. Then I remembered - I hate doing this.
There I sat surrounded by tiny baby clothes. Remembering. Reminiscing. Poor Ross; he didn't get why I was crying. Men. You know ladies. Most likely even if you have no baby clothes lying around you have some dress you wore on the first date with Mr. Right or the Sweater in which you finally realized he was Mr. Wrong. Whatever, clothes can bring this all back. Tiny little baby clothes are sentimental to me. My mom saved clothes from when I was a baby for me to pass on to my kiddos. (Fat lot of good that did me with this house full of boys)
As I sifted through the tiny apparel I cried. Ross looked at me lovingly (but still like I had spontaneously sprouted a long scaly green tail) as I pressed the sweet little blue dragonfly outfit I brought Ryker home in to my nose and inhaled. He promptly said "Umm, It doesn't smell. Its clean." Yes dear. Thank you. I realized I would probably never smell that sweet baby smell from my own children again. Notice I said PROBABLY. I don't want to say never because God has a sense of humor, and with my second child, no sooner had I finally released all his baby things did I find out I was pregnant again. So I let go of a stage in my life, the 0-12 months age. So sweet. So innocent. So immobile. And while I was at it, I bagged up all clothes that read 18 months to 2T. It's was a night that was so completely, indescribably, simultaneously wonderful and utterly horrific.