Emptying the dishwasher last night, I spied the corner of the utensil drawer that housed the babyfood spoons. Desperate to free up valuable real estate I grabbed up the pile of spoons and stepped toward the trash can. The spoons were almost in the can before the realization of the impact of that act: I was de-babying.
I walk around the Match-Box cars and Polly Pockets, and yearn for the day that I can sell the popper ball toy that takes up residence in the corner of the playroom so that the next toy can take its place, or, better yet, have nothing move in at all. When I can claim my rightful seat at the table opposite the head where my husband sits when it is vacated by the highchair. It's exciting. But...there's a certain melancholy to it.
Long ago we cleared the shelf in the cupboard where the bottles lived. But I drew back my hand from the garbage can and pulled out two of the spoons from the bunch before the others moved on. Someday, by someone, they might be needed, and I'll have that little bit of babyness to go to.
