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I remember the moments sorting through trash bags of hand-me-downs on the floor of my first baby’s nursery, before she was even born.
I cradled each onesie and pair of pants in my hands, wondering what this tiny creature growing inside me would look like, smell like, feel like. How awe-inspiring that she would actually come out of my body, wear these tiny things.
I loved washing them, letting them fluff in the dryer, and even though I couldn’t use detergent with scent they still smelled clean, fresh, and full of promise. I teared up over sleepers, precious with pink flowers and white puppies. I accumulated more clothes than she could have worn and then gave it away by the bagful when she outgrew it.
Her clothes are so much bigger now. Socks with beads that click-clack, jean dresses, zebra stripes, so much pink. Disney princess tops she wears again and again and again. The one pair of jeans – no button, no zipper, no snap – that she will allow to grace her nonexistent hips.
She turns 5 next week. And I still want to zip her up in fleece pajamas and hold her in my lap. Tell her to stop sassing, stop fighting, stop being so very old and be my baby again. Let me smell your head, touch your cheek in wonder, and cry just a little over the wonder of a first child.
See all kind of musings on laundry at Five Minute Friday this week.