Transitions

A couple days ago I claimed part of the yet unfinished guest room as a "nursery nook" for Elliot.

The plan when we broke through the second story of our home more than 14 months ago was to have both of the bedrooms we added (master bedroom and guest room/nursery combo) done by now, but as all projects go, things have taken longer and cost more than even our most conservative planning accounted for.

That's okay. Elliot doesn't know that the walls aren't painted, the baseboard isn't even purchased let alone installed, the window casings aren't in, and the flooring isn't sealed.

When I look at the space we carved out of the mess of wood, tools, and paint supplies that has resided in that empty half-finished room for the better part of a year now, I hardly know all that isn't finished. It's beautiful in its own growing-with-us sort of way.

The final steps in the moving process were to relocate the baby monitor from the window sill near my bed to the dresser in the next-door bedroom and then remove the bedding from the baby basket so that it could be put away in storage.

And I must confess that as I put the sheet and bumper in the washing machine, a big lump formed in my throat.

It's incredibly sad to me to think that he is done sleeping in this little bed of his, right near my own "big bed" (as Claire always refers to it, due to its height) and close enough that when I wake at night I can hear his gentle breathing. At the beginning of his life, he hated this bed and only wanted to be with me; as he has grown, it has become his favorite place to sleep, and he has slept so well in it that we have carried it all the places we may travel or visit in order to allow him this piece of home anywhere he may be.

He is beyond outgrowing it, though. His little feet have pushed his head right past the bumper and into the wicker many times, occasionally even leaving marks and often resulting in heartbroken awakening.

 

I've put this bed away five times before. Each time I've thought that surely I will never forget how my baby looked nestled within its little walls, safely tucked where I can reach my hand out any time of night and feel the gentle rhythm of their heartbeat.

The truth is that I do forget.

I do.

The other truth is I don't know how many more times, if ever, I will be wrapping a baby and settling him/her in this basket bed again. I'm a little too experienced to think we get to take things for granted.

And while one might think that I'm tired of "the baby thing," that perhaps it's old hat, or that I would be glad to put away these vestiges of early infancy, on the contrary, it gets harder and sadder each time.

Not to mention, regardless of what the future holds for me, I know that this baby, this little man-child, my very own Elliot Hale, will never sleep in that little basket bed again.

Oh, how much a mother's heart must let go of over the years.

So yes, the lumps form in my throat and my eyes burn with unshed tears and my insides ache.

And I think I have barely scratched the surface.