I cleaned a bunch of outgrown clothes out of Zoe's closet. I don't
have any reason to feel regretful, because she wore these clothes from
last March through the summer and into the winter, before I started
putting the "pantsuit" all-in-ones on her. I have lots of pictures of
her in all these clothes, but this morning, I find myself with big tears
in my eyes every time I think of pulling all those cute little clothes
off their hangers and putting them in the box to go upstairs for "maybe
someday." I don't think it's so much about the little clothes-they're
cute, and we have lots of good memories of Zoe wearing those clothes,
but they come out with cute new things every day. It's the little girl
who's outgrowing them I'm trying so desperately to hold onto.
I've packed away the little purple and black newborn outfit that fit
her all baggy and big when they took her picture on our second day in
the hospital, but fit her like an undersized
sausage casing before her first Thanksgiving. I have her 0-3m Fluffy
Green Dress set aside to be framed (because that one carries special
significance). We tried to get extra mileage out of that one, putting
it on her when the ruffles seemed to swallow her whole, and finally
giving up when we couldn't get the snaps fastened beneath anymore. Now
the little orange romper, and the navy blue one with the white
embroidery, and the turquoise and brown ones with white polkadots are
folded and packed away in the bin, and her closet's full of the next
wave of cute little things to wear.
Zoe's ready for the next
wave of Growing Up. And here I sit in a puddle, because it seems like
just the other day that I could tuck her under my arm like a tiny but
chubby little football. I was trying to teach her to roll over and keep
socks and shoes on her Feet of Fury. Now, she still climbs up on my
lap and grips me like the little monkey she is, and she still delights
in going for walks outside, all tucked into her MoBY Wrap carrier, but
she left rolling over in the dust a long time ago, and instead,
throughout the day, I hear the soles of her little silver shoes she
insists on wearing, tapping like a snare drum on the floor as she runs
through the house, squealing at the joy of just being her.
She's growing too fast, but at exactly the speed she's supposed to.
It's me who's static and getting left in the dust, and I miss her a
little bit, already.