Fashion victim...

Over the past few days I have been attempting to accomplish the heroic task known as "sorting baby clothes". Those of you who know us well are aware that Rhea has been blessed with an amazingly generous Grammy who sends fabulous new clothes that arrive on our doorstep with startling regularity.

This task began as one on the "to do list"...not something I was looking forward to and not one particularly high on that list as it was easy to close the door to the nursery and pretend, for a little bit anyway, that it wasn't pressing. If it were not for the fact that I could no longer close dresser drawers and Rhea's crib had again become a storage cage (which now needs to accommodate her snazzy new organic mattress) I'm sure this task would still be languishing behind closed doors.

It began easily enough...I started to pull out all of the 3-6 month clothing...stacking what was too small in piles (which pretty much covered her floor) and neatly putting away the clothes that still fit . As I mentioned this was a process and one that I chipped away at while she was taking naps or when she went to bed. Today I decided that it was time to put the piles of clothes "away". Now I had (still have) grand ideas of separating the clothes into piles according to age and item of clothing (ie long sleeve onsies 3-6 mo. pants 0-3 mo. etc.) and storing them all very neatly and organized. But in the interest of getting her room together I decided to put the clothes into large bags "for now" and tackle the massive sorting effort at a "to be determined" later date.

Feeling somewhat proud of my progress I began to put her clothes into the bags when out of the blue and without warning...I found myself feeling profoundly sad. I sat amongst the piles of her baby clothes unfolding, holding up and refolding my carefully made piles. Amazed at the amount of memories that can be attached to little bits of cloth. I reminisced about the times she wore certain clothes...her little black and white checked dress with lady bugs (the first dress she ever wore)...all the tiny,now somewhat tattered, plain white onesies...her Levi jeans, cozy footie pajamas... (I could go on and on..even things she didn't have a chance to wear saddened me...because she had gotten so big and damn that *would* have been cute).

When I began this task the only emotion I would have expected to feel upon its completion would have been relief. But as usual I was thrown the Mama curve ball...yet another marker (and a very concrete one at that) of the passage of time. I was left wondering...how is it that you can so thoroughly welcome and celebrate each new step forward while at the same time so completely mourn all those baby steps left behind?