Every few weeks, I notice Everett’s clothes fitting tighter. The onesies hardly snap, and suddenly he’s in high waters. It’s a project, but when I can find some time, I have been going through his nursery. I spend a few hours putting away what no longer fits, rearranging some things, and sorting through new toys he might be ready for.
There’s a beginning and an end to the task, so it feels like a Type A activity, but somewhere in the process I always find myself falling victim to my emotions as a mama. I hold up his little baby garments that were once too big for him. Anything 3 months or below no longer fits (tear). When I look at each piece of clothing, I have flashbacks of the days we spent together, he in those outfits. I take photos of him every day, not necessarily to “post” (although I often do), but to have to remember our special days, just Everett and me. I’m always thankful for the sort of photo journal that Instagram serves as, for life’s little square memories to be shared with friends and family.
Our precious time together won’t last forever. It’s the strangest combination of accomplishment and heartbreak with every new milestone he reaches. When he started sleeping through the night, I was thrilled and thankful for the extra sleep, but I sort of missed getting up with him, as that was strictly our time, and I’ve always been sort of an insomniac after a certain hour. When he rolled over, I was so excited, but it made him more mobile and he wasn’t my swaddled, still little newborn anymore. Most recently, he’s started solid foods. It’s so perfect the way he smiles at the fruits and vegetables, and also so messy.
As I packed up his nursery this past week, I was flooded with sentiment. The gray and white walls house a world of memories. This was the time of year 12 months ago that I found out I was pregnant. I remember not knowing if he was a boy or girl. I began a journal to our baby, who was nothing more than a mere idea of a person, that had just started to form inside of me. I wanted to document for him how excited and scared I was to be his mother. Throughout my pregnancy and since his birth, I’ve kept up with a long entry every couple months. Someday I will give it to him, but not until he’s an adult.
Although it made me nervous because I didn’t want to jinx anything, I remembered walking into Baby Gap (with intentions to shop as a mother for the first time) last December. I headed to the sale rack, and browsed through the neutral clothing items. I always love the clearance section because it’s so random. I love when I find unique one-off items that feel like they were left there for just the right person to discover. Of course I had to have the lone remaining onesie that said “Take My Picture” with an old-fashioned camera. I bought it and tucked it away in our old house, along with a few other little first baby purchases.
I haven’t put that little onesie away just yet. He can still squeeze into it for a couple more wears before I save it for our next baby someday. I know I’m not the first person to have an emotional attachment to clothing. It’s truly not the material item I love so dearly, but the memory of finding something so perfect for my very first baby, the first time he put it on, and the way he’s grown into it from newborn to his newly chubby little baby body.
Among other favorites in his closet are the personalized onesies we’ve received from “Hi Little One” clothing company. They are designed and made custom for each baby with their name, initials and phrases that totally fit the baby’s personality. They make a great gift, or simply a great keepsake for your own little one. I know I’ll have a hard time letting go of these, too—but they’ll be perfect in a shadowbox or scrapbook.
Everett is almost 20 weeks now. There’s been such a shift in my life in what truly matters, and for that I will be forever grateful.
I know he doesn’t understand just yet, but reading Christmas books to Everett next to our Christmas tree has been one of my favorite parts of this December.
Happy holidays, and thanks for reading.