The things we carry

My baby is three.

Putting aside -- just for the moment -- all the accomplishments she's made in the past three years, I have felt it necessary in these past few weeks to ruminate a little bit about what it means to me to have no little babies in my house. In this past few months, I've slowly passed on all of the "gear" that I associate with real babies. I've used Freecycle to find new homes for my breast pump, fancy nursing bras, and covered diaper pail (called "the diaper champ," and boy, was it ever!). I packed up our well-loved diaper bag into a corner of our closet. The spoons and forks in the drawer used by the kids seem slowly to become bigger and pointier as we discard those made for feeding new little eaters. I stopped buying the tiny yogurts that were a staple of every grocery trip for years.

In short: the "things" associated with my parenting are changing. Some are going away forever.

With our little shmoo weaned, I no longer need to lift my shirt for her to nurse, and suddenly I find that my breasts are my own again. What to do with this rediscovered section of my body, so de-sexualized over the past six years that I had to dig in the darkest recesses of my closet to find the bag of pretty bras I'd hidden there? Oh yes, there was that brief period between Doodlebug's weaning and my pregnancy with Shmoo where they once again had made an appearance, but it seems almost like a dream. Now here they are again, colored, frilly, lacy, wrought with innuendo, and I almost want to laugh as I put them on. How did this work, again?

Who am I, again?

Shmoo wants to stop using the little potty that sits on the floor, the one that needs emptying after every use, the one I've emptied a thousand times, disinfected every few days in a stolen moment, covered with stickers for accomplishments in toilet learning for both girls. She prefers to use a stool to reach the "big potty," which certainly eliminates a dirty job from my day. I see this tiny little person sitting proudly up there, grinning ear to ear, and feel the strangest pang of melancholy for the day -- imminent -- that she will no longer need me to hold her up to wash her hands.

In my big purse -- a replacement for the diaper bag -- I carry a pair of tiny toddler-sized underpants, a weathered baggie of crackers, and sometimes, a toy or two. I am suddenly aware that someday it may hold only my own things. There have been so many moments when I have pined for a life and body all my own, and yet, as that time approaches, I feel myself standing with feet on either side of a crack, noting that as it widens, I may need to jump to one side.

It's time to redefine my place, though, and that's for certain. I'm looking for a ceremony of closure as my last baby grows past babyhood, and I am lucky enough to have friends warm, creative, and loving enough to help me with that. For today, however, I scooped a scraped-up Shmoo off the sidewalk where she fell, took her into the house for a swab at her scratched knee, and grabbed our beloved sling off the table in the foyer. Pulling her close to me, I carried her to preschool in that sling, snuggled up against me, with her head on my shoulder.