Saying Good-Bye to Babies

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Today, I climbed the creaky stairs into the dim and dusty attic, searching for three little boxes. They are labelled "Newborn", "3-6 mos.", and "6-12 mos." I found them in a dark corner, along with a baby tub, a trashbag full of Playtex bottles and nipples, and a smiling wooden hobby horse whose shaggy mane, from the looks of it, has provided many a meal for the creatures who dwell there.

I dragged them downstairs and opened them, breathing in that peculiar, musty unwashed clothing odor, and remembering a time when those tiny things smelled sweetly of baby powder and Desitin.

My children are 8 and 11. I still have every stitch of clothing they have ever worn. I still have caps and booties and bibs. I still have teethers and rattles and stuffed lovies. I still have the stroller, the exersaucer, the baby swing, and the bassinette. I still have dogeared and drooled upon board books, lullabye tapes, and the white noise machine that once held a baby picture.

For a long time I kept these things because I thought I would have more babies. I was raised to economize by parents who struggled to make ends meet, and so, I dutifully packed things up, labelled them, and put them away for the next child. I was sad to put them away, because it was an all too wrenching reminder that my babies were growing up with a speed that left me with an ache in my breast, wondering where the years had gone. But I looked forward to the day I would bring them out again. The new baby preparations were such a satisfying thing for me. I loved washing and folding those tiny, fleecy, fluffy things and placing them into drawers with scented pink and blue liner.

Over the years, I grudgingly loaned things to my sister, but only after exacting promises that they would be returned in the same condition as they were given. For the most part, she honored my request, though a few things were too soiled with the stubborn residue of long eaten green beans and yellow squash. A couple of toys did not withstand the rigors of toddlerhood and were bid a sad farewell. But my frugal nature was gratified that our things had gotten so much use and were well used and loved by children who meant almost as much to me as my own.

As the years passed, we began to realize and accept that we would not be having any more babies. For a very long time I waffled between being glad to have the days of sleepless nights, leaky breasts, and all things poop behind us and desperately longing to feel my belly filled once again with the weight of our almost baby. My husband carefully raised the issue of vasectomy from time to time, only to be confronted by a tearful wife who proclaimed she wasn't yet ready to close the door on the possibility of bringing forth new life. Because although I am a spiritually ambivalent, the miracle of birth is one I believe in with all my heart. I wasn't quite ready to say never again, and mean it.

Eventually, however, our life settled into a rythym that has been freeing and pleasing. Our boys are older and self-sufficient to degree. My days are my own. We sleep the entire night through, if we please. We can sleep in on Saturday mornings while the boys feast upon nutritionally bereft foodstuffs and questionable media. We can leave home on a whim, we can go where the day takes us. We do not have to plan around naps and nursing.

I won't lie. It's nice. And often when I look back on the days when I had babies, it is with a mixture of fondess and antipathy.

Still, when I brought down those boxes and began to pull out those things, there was a twinge.

And I realized that the real reason I hadn't sold them or given them away, was not because I hadn't yet admitted to myself that my days of rocking babies was past, but because my days of rocking THOSE babies was past, and that never again will things be as innocent, or as simple, as the days when a cuddle with Mommy would soothe any hurt.

My oldest one, at 11, looks me in the eye. He has girls, and sports, and hip hop music on his mind. I am no longer the center of his universe. He no longer tells me his secrets. And one day, another woman will lie next to him and listen to his hopes and dreams. My time is growing short.

My baby is 8. He is spirited. He challenges me daily and I feel that his babyhood was spent trying to keep him alive and me sane. I just did what I could to get through each day. Because I also had a toddler to deal with, I didn't get the luxury of spending hours alone with him, just playing, or reading or talking. I want to go back because I didn't know then how much I would regret not relishing every, single moment. Even the tough ones.

Recently a friend had a baby, and since she has chosen to stay at home, they are struggling with the loss of one income. And I have all these things....

I decided it was time to say good-bye to my babies, and welcome the young men they are growing into. The memory of that first step, that day in the park, that night spent watching over the first fever, that first day at school...those memories are not attached to the clothes they were wearing that day. They live in my heart, and they will be there always. They will be there long after those clothes will have rotted into dry and dusty rags.

So I'm folding baby clothes once again. I have washed them and restored them to April freshness. And I am enjoying it as much now as I did then. But instead of looking back, I am looking forward to new memories. The first dance. The first date. Graduation. Marriage. My first grandchild. Not all the special moments live in the past. Some lie ahead. And only by letting go can I appreciate them fully when they come.

I will still cry, and remember the way they used to be when those moments come. But I will not be sad that they have grown, but happy that they have grown into strong, confident, happy men.

To my sweet boys,

You made me a Mother and you taught me what it was to love without limit or condition. Now I look to the lessons you have yet to teach.

Good-Bye Babies. I will love you always.

Hello Young Men. I look forward to learning who you are.

Love,

Mom