This is one of those "sometimes."
Loyal readers know that Joel decided to fling himself out of his crib, so we're moving on to stage two of Operation: Contain Baby---the big boy bed. We bought the twin mattress and the comforter with trucks (!) and stop signs (!!!). We cleared out every last choking hazard, set up the gate at the top of the stairs, and (gulp) moved Joel into Owen's room.
My boys are sharing a room. We're getting rid of the crib. It's the end of the baby era for us.
I'm mostly okay with this, except for the teeth marks. As we were breaking down the crib, I saw the little hash marks tattooed along the crib. Owen's teeth. Joel's teeth. My babies, my little teething babies, had gummed the crib, testing out their new teeth like an artist with a fresh box of pastels.
And seeing those little marks, it killed me. It just killed me.
I try not to be one of those boo-hooey moms, crying over every haircut or outgrown onesie. I mean, I don't even really like babies. The older they get, the more fun they become. They talk. Tell jokes. Climb. Run. Think.
At least that's what I tell myself.
But, it's different with Joel because there's that sense of finality. The lights are turned off, and it's time to leave Babyville. We won't be returning here again.
I could have spent all day being weepy about a piece of wood. Instead, I went to the library.
The library adjusts my attitude like a spiritual chiropractor. Whenever I'm ready to throw in the towel, I'm reminded that a world with national parks and public libraries can't be all bad.
A place with books and music and computers---all free! A place that feeds my mind, renews my hope in new beginnings, and has a wicked-cool sailboat for my kid...well, that's about as close to perfect as I'm going to find on a cloudy Saturday morning.
I can promise you that this kiddo is delighted to break down the boundaries of his life...each frustration transformed into a met challenge, another taste of independence.
I mean, why crawl when you can stand? Why sleep behind bars when there are truck comforters and shared big-boy bedrooms?
Libraries hold promises. Growing boys hold promises. I can weep over the passing of time, or I can turn the page, and see what's going to happen next.
Away we go!
(See Unknown Mami's site for additional tours of the world, through Sundays in My City)