You know how when you bring home all those teeny tiny itty bitty onesies and Jon-Jons that are so cute when your baby is the size of a sprinkle? You know how the outfits are so dang small that your husband couldn’t wear them as mittens, much less snap the things? You know how you so gently washed them and folded and hung them on those precious little hangers that are impossibly adorable and fit for a pixie?
Remember how small they once were?
Being small equates to so much more than size. The utter smallness of a newborn son nestled in his Moses basket or better yet, upon your chest, is love and mortality and family and goodness at their finest. The simplicity of smallness. That smallness means miracle, responsibility, opportunity, potential, glory, dedication, future. That smallness is the starting line for the growth of a family and the bonding of a mother. The first drop of immense love that fills you up a thousand fold over. That smallness is larger than life.
And then they grow.
And grow.
I was almost awash in tears last night as I was putting away Bird’s laundry. Yes, his laundry nearly drove me to tears. Granted, I hate laundry so it often drives me to whining hissy fits but this is not what I’m talking about. I caught a fat salty drop before it fell to my cheek. You see, Bird’s teetering on the cusp of seven.
7. Years. Old.
His clothes aren’t so small anymore. His clothes aren’t even all that cute(sy) anymore. His shirts could pass as mine, and in fact, Mac Daddy often questions whose T-shirts are whose when he folds the laundry (Yes, I have a husband who folds laundry. I told you he is a keeper.). What made me weepy was that Bird’s big boy clothes don’t fit on the baby sized hangers anymore. Those tiny hangers that have been in his closet since the day we started stockpiling a baby wardrobe are now too small. My little Baby Bird is becoming a Big Bird. All that means to me is that he’s slowly growing wings. To fly.
Away.
And all I can do is watch, beam, love, applaud.
And maybe shed a tear.
Fly, Bird, fly.
Such a bittersweet, lovely post.
[applause]
Ah, you've perfectly captured one of my bittersweet moments of mothering lately. With a little sadness I gave up the tiny hangers to the neighbor lady a couple months ago.
Last night I pulled out my boys' feetie pajamas for one more go around before it warmed up. But as I unzipped one pair, I noticed my 6yo's had holes in the toes. He had grown out of them. And who cried about it? HE DID. "I want them to fit, I don't want to get bigger!" It just about broke my heart as I pulled him into my lap and promised we'd find feetie pajamas that fit ALL of us next winter.
I remember those bitty clothes, I wonder who stole my brown eyed cooing and kicking baby, I feel as awkward about his growth and length as he does. Its happening too fast for both of us.
We're living parallel lives again.
Happy birthday to your beautiful bird. XO
Almost every time I weed my child's closet/dresser, I feel this pang.
I know how you feel. Prima is now 9 and is burrowing my shoes! How is that even possible. I am so not ready to be the mom of a pre-teen. I am too young and inexperienced! (Please don't tell the little ones that I haven't a clue beyond 5PM on Friday.)
Aaaaaaaand I cry. Outgrowing clothes is the most heartbreaking thing a boy can do to his mom. Dean has started wearing the dreaded 2T's and it breaks my heart. I want "month" sizes back with snappy crotches and such!
Mr. Bird is looking quite grown and snazzy in his argyle.