On Sunday, I finally did something I’ve put off for at least a week. I moved Squirm up to the next size of clothing.
It was overdue. I was pulling his outfits into unnatural shapes to make them close. And the way he is growing, he was definitely ready to fit into the 00 sized clothes rather than the 000. But still I ignored the task, putting it behind other things I just had to do.
The act of packing up his clothes was terribly sad. It reminded me that Squirm was growing older, that he would never again be the squishy, almost inanimate baby he was when he first came home. The clothes he was wearing were among the first clothes he wore, some of them comically big for the first few weeks before he filled them out. The clothes he’d grown out of included the outfit he wore home from hospital, a lovely yellow onesie with a jumping frog on the front.
There’s more than just watching Squirm grow older. After having so much trouble falling pregnant with him, there’s a nagging thought, lurking at the back of my mind, that he might be the only child we have. We might never see another baby of our own wear these lovely clothes.
So, I took them out of his drawers, one piece at a time. I held them for a moment, then said goodbye, folding them carefully and placing them into a plastic tub.
Then I picked up his new clothes, admiring how cool some of them are, and placed them in his drawers.