As I sat on the floor in front of my baby’s crib, restlessly running my fingers through the red shag carpet that sits in the middle of my children’s bedroom, he quoted Ferris Bueller: “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.” Well, that was it. That was the straw that broke mama’s back. And right then and there in front of my well-intentioned husband, I started to cry. I didn’t know if they were sad tears or tears of pride or water that was pent up from the anxiety I’ve been having trying to prepare to move out for the summer while our house gets remodeled, or heck, maybe they were just a gift from the always-trusted, ever-reliable Aunt Flo.
Wherever these tears were coming from, they were hefty. They started as those cute corner drops that can make a cartoon character pull at your heartstrings. But the more I let my thoughts run, the uglier they got.
We spent the weekend cleaning the house, clearing out rooms to make space for the dreaded game of Musical Furniture and downsizing old board games and books and clothes that finally got hit with a heavy dose or body image reality. I’m a tyrant when it comes to being a non-hoarder. I love space, clear walkways, bins with labels, dusted shelves and an organized toy room (notice I said “organized,” not “clean.” I’m more pragmatic than that, for gosh sakes.). At least I thought I was a tyrant…until I came back in the house to grab my fourth load of items to fill the car for their resting place at Goodwill.
There it sat. Our baby walker. Staring back at me with its primary colors and missing pieces. This plain jane baby walker with just enough bells and whistles to make an infant giggle when they first discovered how to make the cows go moo or the sunshine sing. I picked it up and, like a montage from a movie, I saw each of my children using it to stumble their way across the living room, one fat foot crookedly stepping in front of the other. Spilling to their knees with a big thud, each kid reacting differently.
Eight years ago we had a crier, a cautious boy who was scared of his own shadow and would’ve been fine being transported by the arms of his parents until collage if it weren’t frowned upon by the general public. But he got there and now he’s the “third fastest kid in his class.” Five years ago we had a spitfire, a rambunctious beautiful girl who used that walker to zoom from room to room in hopes of catching her older brother and then chortling a high-pitched noise when she finally cornered him as if it was the most joyful moment of her life. One year ago we watched our grand finale, our mini tsunami, our last little boy push that walker with the sole purpose of crashing into the dog or barreling over daddy’s toes, and deciding that once he got it, that was it. He owned walking and about two weeks later, he owned running. And about two weeks after that, he owned the destruction of everything sitting at or below 36 inches from the ground.
This walker gave my heart an extra beat. Or took one away. I wasn’t quite sure. But I knew it wasn’t going anywhere.
“I don’t think I can get rid of it.”
“Then don’t.”
And with that compassionate response from my husband, the walker went back in to the basement.
We did a little more housecleaning and made our way to the kid’s bedroom. We stared at the crib and had the discussion about what to do with it. Will he be ready for a toddler bed? Yes. By the time we get our new house addition, he will probably be anti-crib, so yes was our answer. We scoured through the directions to find out how to convert the crib to a day bed and reminisced about walking the aisles of Babies R Us looking for a secure and well-reviewed crib that wasn’t going to set us back $800. We remember putting it together – together. We laughed about the nights we’d lay Coen down and ninja crawl out of the bedroom, hiding under the gates of the crib until we knew we wouldn’t get caught leaving. We laid three different babies into that crib over the course of eight years.
“It’s served us well,” Nate said.
Yup. It’s served us well.
So I sat on that red shag carpet and stared at the crib. With my heart still stinging from the idea of releasing that plastic walker out into the wild, it hit me. We are in “Kids: Chapter 2.” “Kids 2.0.” “Part Deux: No More Babies.” Whatever you want to call it. Our “babies” are no longer babies. They are toddlers and preschoolers and elementary schoolers. They’re able to talk and run and hold you when they sense your sadness. They are KIDS. Not babies. Chapter 2. 2.0. Deux. How? When did that happen? All I did was blink.
Our crib will never be a crib again. Little chubby fingers will never sit along top the railings and big-cheeked, wide-eyed faces will never stretch to peek over the top. And, dear GOD, if that idea wasn’t enough to put me into a complete and utter tailspin, I don’t know what is. The cute corner drops fell into puddles, then pools, then Olympic-sized pools. It hit me all too much, all too hard, all at once.
Chapter 2. Kids 2.0. This is it. This is right now. With a new home and new rooms and space to play and clearing out unused doll houses and ill-fitting princess costumes and batcaves and baby iPads (that – let’s be real – never got used because even babies know real iPads are way cooler)…we are starting a new chapter. A chapter where I get to watch the boy who was once scared to step down a curb now ride rollercoasters with me (the ones that go upside-down!). A chapter where I can hear my daughter’s same joyful laugh shine through when she learns she is going to have the same Kindergarten teacher her big brother had. A chapter where I get to watch our tiny tsunami learn right from wrong and pick up his messes and pet his dog and say “I love you” for the first time. This is our new chapter. Chapter 2.
The process of raising kids is an emotional one. It is filled with some of the most difficult life moments known to man. You’ll feel proud, then furious, then broke, then broken down. You’ll experience joy and hope and fear and pain and the kind of warm fuzzies that’ll make you want to buy the whole damn universe a round of drinks. You’ll see happiness on a whole different level, new perspectives on discipline, education and human rights, and a preemptive glimpse of what I can only hope heaven will be like. You will never be the same person you were before you had them. You’ll be stronger. With the exception of giving up a walker filled with visual pangs of pride, you’ll be so much stronger.
In this new chapter, I’ll still be gently placing them into their beds and kissing them goodnight. It’s not a crib. But I know that it doesn’t have to be. In this chapter, I’ll still be watching them learn to walk…roads of friendship and education and challenge and empathy. They won’t need a walker. But I know it’s not necessary. In this chapter, I will continue to remember my husband’s very favorite quote because, dogginnit, Ferris, you were wise beyond your years:
“Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”
And I refuse to miss it.
