We moved Bubette out of her crib this weekend, and just so there would be no way to turn back from that decision, we sold both the crib and her rocking chair. The rocking chair! I’ve rocked my babies in that chair for nearly six years, and when my friend drove away with the rocking chair in the back of her minivan, I had a brief flash of myself chasing them down the street screaming waaaaait!
It doesn’t really matter if I’m ready, because time marches on. It helps, it helps a lot, that I sold both the crib and the rocking chair to two good friends of mine. So at least someone has a baby in that crib, even if it’s not my baby. Even if my baby is way too big for the crib, and likes to sleep with entirely too many friends to make crib sleeping a good idea anymore, it’s nice that families that are near and dear to me are getting good use out of our baby things.
With Bub, every new thing was exciting. A bed! Hooray! You’re the big brother and your little sister will use that crib. School! So fun! You get out of the house to burn off your boundless energy, and mama will come home and and get so much done while the baby naps. (HaHA.)
The thing about having two kids is that the first kid is the first to do everything, and the second kid is the last to do everything and it’s kind of jarring. A third kid isn’t on the table, but I could have done with a bit of a buffer between First! Excitement and Glee! and Final! No more babies for you!
Once more, for the record, this isn’t my plea for a third kid. I help out in the nursery at church one weekend a month now, so that’s a nice hour of baby holding. It’s particularly nice because there aren’t any of my own children clamoring for my attention. I surprise babysat for my neighbor recently when she was in a pinch, and my husband came home to me with a baby and general chaos in the house. Three kids is a lot of kids. So many people do it with grace, but this decision is me knowing my limits. I know what my neuroses can handle, and two is it. One for each hand works perfectly for me.
I really thought I would be dusting off my hands and gleefully waving goodbye to those marks of babyhood. The kids are getting older, and things are getting easier in so many ways. (Don’t talk to me about teenagers. I taught middle school. I KNOW.) My husband’s boss reminds me every time that I see her that it gets easier. And it does! It is! And yet.
This isn’t about any sort of discontent with my current batch of children. I’m quite pleased with the two of them, but I am a person who likes the baby stage. I’m discovering that I’m a person who also likes the next stages. At gymnastics last week I was showing Bubette how to walk on the balance beam and she clapped and cheered, “You’re doing it, mommy! YAY, mommy!” So I’m not the kind of jerk who can’t recognize that the next part is pretty great, too. I’m just the kind who is having a touch of trouble letting go of the other stuff.