The Pile

There is a pile in my basement.  It started off as one, single item.  That one, single item is on its way out, has a destination in mind and is simply waiting.  Then that one, single item became two and three and eventually, a pile.  And yesterday, I added something else to that pile.  My old and worn copy of What To Expect The First Year.  I placed the book atop the baby bath towels that now look impossibly tiny, yet once seemed to swallow Abby and Alyssa whole.  The towels were placed upon several receiving blankets that were the perfect weight to protect the girls from too much sun or a light fall breeze.  The blankets were placed atop the baby bathtub, the Bumbo seat and tray, the boppies, the bouncy seat and the Baby Bjorn.  Each item thoroughly cleaned, yet indelibly covered with sweet memories.  

Like the first time I placed Abby in that blue tub, her eyes its exact color.  The squeals of delight she let out as the water splashed on her toes, tummy and nose.  And even the last time I placed Alyssa in it, realizing that she was too big--and too capable--to need the confines of its plastic protection.  Into the big tub she went---joyfully!  The Bumbo seat, where both girls perfected the whole sitting up thing, transfixed by hockey games on TV or the lights of the Christmas tree.  The bouncy seat that became a fixture in our bathroom, allowing me to take a shower when I needed one as desperately as the baby needed a nap.  And the Baby Bjorn that didn't really seem useful until Alyssa came along and I needed two hands to help Abby yet still hold Alyssa.  She toured our neighborhood many times from that vantage point, the idea of her nestled so closely to me was incredibly comforting--even as I huffed and puffed up the hills with the extra weight of her warm body on mine.

Other vestiges of babyhood have disappeared as well.  The mobile that "Herc" broke (how Alyssa pulled it totally apart is beyond me!), the swing and even the changing pad that became obsolete pretty quickly as Alyssa figured out that squirming through a diaper change was a whole lot more fun than being peaceful and still.  To the floor we went for that chore.  Gone is the gigantic bink they give you at the hospital; neither girl liking it for more than a couple weeks anyway.  Packed away are my pumps; thrown away are all of the corresponding Medela bottles I used for months and months.  So, too, are the bottles Alyssa took--replaced with sippy cups and straw cups.  The crib and pack 'n play mattresses are both lowered and each week I clean out another drawer of clothes that no longer fit my Babe.

Yet walking downstairs and setting that book on top of that pile caught me emotionally off guard.  The first year is over.  Packed away in memories and pictures and experiences.  I wasn't expecting the reaction to be as visceral.  But there I was, in the basement, crying.  Over a pile.  I'm not an idiot; I know that Alyssa (and Abby too!) has to grow up.  I know she is a nearly-walking one year old with a mouthful of teeth and a headful of ideas.  I also know that there will be no more babies in our home...and although that is our choice, it still made me sad in the moment. 

The moments are so brief.  The crying all night long moments?  Brief (though not at the time).  The I wonder what her voice will sound like moments?  Brief (replaced with I wonder if there will ever be silence moments).  And in making this pile, I was reminded that these pieces of our kiddos' lives, once seemingly impossible to live without, are moving on to someone else who can use them.  For brief moments.

I'm sure it's no coincidence that I would find a perfectly-suited blog post on a friend's FB wall last week.  The week Abby and Alyssa turned 6 and 1.  The post was entitled something like "When Did I Last Wash Your Hair?"  And I thought it was a funny look at the life of a busy Mom who was so crazed she couldn't remember when she last bathed her kids.  I wanted to laugh, so I clicked on it.  Whoops.  No.  It was about not realizing that she had washed her daughter's hair for the last time because now, said daughter, could (and insisted upon!) do it herself. 

Abby now closes her door when she's getting dressed.  She works so hard to get her hair into a pony tail and select an outfit that matches and will earn my approval.  When she yells through the door, "I'm ready, you can come in now!" I open the door to a girl, beaming with pride.  She is, in that moment, both my little girl and far too grown up for my liking.  And I wonder, when was the last time you asked me to help you get dressed? 

We celebrate a ton of firsts, don't we?  We record them and mark the occasion.  But we don't do that with the lasts because we don't always know those moments are the last moments.  Like the pile in the basement, it creeps up on you.  One moment at a time until BAM, you're no longer rocking your baby to sleep as you nurse her.  One moment your tiny girl is in your arms and fits right there, the next, you carry her up to bed and there seems to be a mile of limbs and body and hair to hold.  One moment you're hovering behind the wobbly and excited steps of your little one as she attempts the stairs, the next, you're calling her to come downstairs for dinner.  One minute there's one, single item and the next, a pile of memories and baby needs.

 
The one, single item that started the pile?  Our family bassinet.  More than a dozen babies have used it, each of their names written on the bottom.  And now that bassinet is headed to my cousin for his first child.  And someday be the start of his pile, too.

While it might be nice to have that space reclaimed in my basement, I'm sure I'll be pretty thoughtful about having all that stuff leave.  And I'll be sure to mark the occasion, not simply let it slip by unnoticed.  It will be the last time that bassinet (and everything else piled on top of it) is in my house.  I'll notice.

Abby checking on Alyssa in the bassinet