I cleaned my room today.
I've fallen off the Flylady bandwagon with my room being dragged through the dust and dirt behind. Granted, it's not as bad as it could be, because Flylady has brainwashed me just enough to keep me from letting complete chaos set up residence again. And I feel convicted about setting the example for my kids.
Kids. Who knew they could act as built in self-control radars?
Anyway, for a couple of months I've been going through all of my baby things, seperating the very cherished from the lesser cherished and readying myself to part with them. It's been a somewhat sad process.
Okay. It's been an emotionally gut-wrenching process.
So while I was cleaning my room today, I found a plastic Target bag with a few of the very cherished items in it, waiting for me to file them in the cedar chest. It contained Brother's blue fleece teddy bear baby blanket, Sister's tiny, newborn bunny slippers and Baby's white cotten onesie with embroidered lady bugs. I lifted out the onesie, so soft and small. It was a newborn size and still looked pristine, as Baby, like every baby, didn't wear it long. I hugged it to me, pretending it still held that tiny, delicate creature and took a deep breath, feeling a little rush of nostalgia. Wishing it still had that sweet, baby smell. I rubbed it on my cheek and remembered the way it swallowed her at first. I couldn't find clothes small enough without resorting to preemies. She was so small and so alert and so utterly and unforgettably beautiful.
It is hard to leave those days behind. There is a part of me that longs to fill my house to the rafters with babies. But I know it is time to move on.
I folded it neatly and put it back in the bag with the others. I'll put it in the cedar chest another day. I can't close the lid on it today.