We are probably putting our highchair away this weekend - and I am dying a little bit inside. You know how it is. I've talked about it before. The changes.
He'll sit in a booster for awhile, and then it won't be long until he is insisting on just a "big boy chair". I know because I've lived it 3 times.
Other than special needs parenting, which may require it long term, we are seeing a light at the end of the you-are-now-an-expert-at-diaper-changing stage of life. Really? A light. I once brought the very existence of this light under question. But now this tunnel of dependence and exhaustion and what-I-wouldn't-give-for-just-five-ever-lovin'-seconds-to-my-ever-tired-self; it has a light at the end of it.
And yes, I am aware that other tunnels await. Crazy ones that are way out of my league. But right now I am here and now and we are putting the highchair away.
I look at my belly, which once was habitat for some beautiful little people. Streaks on the sides are faint and faded. I trace them and am flooded with memories of what they represent to me. Beauty. I don't mind that they will likely always be there. I don't mind one bit.
The highchair has some permanent marks too. They all used it. It looks a little bit tired, but still sturdy.
There are some pockets of time and some creative freedom that I see slowly unfolding before me. New. Exhilarating. Not diaper changing. It's stretching my mind and my heart - kind of like they stretched my body. I wonder if the new experiences will leave a mark.
I'm ready to sprint ahead. Make the new memories, embrace the foreign tunnels. Watch for the lights that illuminate the end of those.
And yet I stand here motionless for just a moment. And then I slowly trace the lines on the highchair. I can smile and I can even be glad for all that is to come, but it doesn't mean I can't get misty eyed over an eight year old piece of plastic and cotton.