Do I really need to keep that colorful-beads-on-wire toy —- like the ones you see in every doctor’s office in America —- forever? How about baby sweaters and 73 Matchbox cars? And the Playskool barn that moos when you open the door?
A few days ago I finished packing up everything I own and moved it a mile down the road to a new home. Many times I repeated to myself my minimalist friend’s moving mantra: If you don’t love it, don’t pack it.
It was easy to part with lots of my own stuff. I donated a bridesmaid’s dress three sizes too big and books I have no intention of ever rereading. It felt good.
But I had a hard time recycling things that remind me of my boys’ babyhoods and at the same time cause me to look forward to grandchildren enjoying them one day at Grandma’s house. (With three teenagers presently in the house, that day had better be a loooong time from now.)
I still have a box marked “Baby Clothes” that has now moved twice. There’s no way anyone will ever wear those yellowed BabyGap rompers that each of my boys wore home from the hospital. But there it sits, alongside a box containing a size 2 Teletubbies Halloween costume, and plastic containers of Beanie Babies.
These are things that remind me that I used to be Mommy and not Mom, and I used to get daily snuggles, whereas now I have to request a hug goodbye. I now have to ask my kids to please come downstairs and sit with me, rather than play Minecraft elsewhere on a laptop. I am a giver of rides and a buyer of groceries.
I think most of us carry certain momentos from place to place that remind us of the people we used to be. I have a notebook scribbled with sharps and flats from the first year I learned music theory, and it reminds me that I am a musician and should try to act more like one. I keep loads of old magazines and newspapers from my early days as a writer, which make me miss the days of being a beat reporter, when I learned something every day (without the use of Google.)
It seems socially acceptable to hold on to pieces of one’s own early days as an adult, but not normal to try to latch on to one’s days as a young parent. Get over it, lady, and cut the apron strings. That part of your life is over, so stop reminiscing.
Yes, I’m letting my boys go. That’s part of the deal, right? We raise them so they’ll leave. One is learning to drive and heading to college in less than a year. But that doesn’t mean I can’t look through a box of onesies and tiny socks on a rainy day and remember how things used to be.
Teresa M. Pelham is a freelance writer living in Farmington and is co-blogger for the Courant’s Mommy Minute blog. Pelham is author of the children’s books “Roxy’s Forever Home” and “Roxy and Her Annoying Little Brother, Stuey.” For more information, visit www.roxysforeverhome.com.
