When Caleb was a fresh new baby — nearly four years ago now — I lovingly packed away all of his clothes as he grew from one size to the next. Each outfit was carefully folded, stored, and labeled in plastic totes. His baby accessories, like his bassinet, were moved into the storage room downstairs. It made for a lot of extra clutter, but we knew we’d have another baby someday. And we wanted to be ready.
Each time he outgrew a size, I felt a little pang of sadness — my baby was growing — but there was comfort in knowing the clothes were safely stored. They weren’t gone. Just waiting.
That someday? It’s here.
Now I lug the totes upstairs and smile as I pull out tiny clothes. I remember Caleb in these outfits — the way he looked, the way it felt — and now, I see Holden in them. My two babies, so different in every way, but wearing the same tiny pajamas, the same velour overalls. It’s sweet. It’s surreal.
But the clothes don’t just bring back baby memories. They remind me of who I was — the mother I was — back then. When Caleb wore those brown velour Pooh overalls, I was anxious, uncertain, and overwhelmed. I was in love, but unsure of myself. Now, when Holden wears them, I feel calmer. More experienced. Happier. The only part that hasn’t changed is how much I love them.
Still, a new kind of sadness has crept in.
This time, I’m not packing baby clothes away in labeled totes for future use. I’m boxing them up for donation. When Holden outgrows something, it goes into a big cardboard box bound for Goodwill — not the basement. These clothes won’t be worn again in our home.
We always knew we wanted two kids. But knowing it — and accepting it — aren’t the same. Every time I think about a third child, the logistics alone tell me no. The cost. The chaos. The space. My head knows it’s the right decision.
But try telling that to my heart.
And yet, strangely enough, I also feel relief. As someone who’s been decluttering a lot lately, I’m grateful to see the clothes go. They’ve taken up space for years, and I’m happy to free up room. I don’t want to hold onto things that no longer serve our lives. Still… it’s bittersweet.
I’ll never bring home a newborn again. Never introduce a brand-new baby to their older brothers. The first smiles, the sweet first days, the hard first nights, the first everything — they’re behind us now.
And oh, how I’ll miss it.
And oh, how I’m relieved.
Relieved that we won’t need a bigger car or to juggle three car seats. Relieved that there won’t be months of sleepless nights. Relieved to not raise more than two teenagers at once. Yes — relieved, even to be packing up the baby clothes.
But I’ll miss reveling over the very first laugh. The sideways grins. The late nights in the rocking chair just me, my baby, and the moon while the rest of the world is quiet. I’ll miss whispering “I love you” at 4 a.m. while my baby dozes in my arms. I’ll miss the weight of them curled up against me, their warmth, their breath, their little noises.
When I pack up Holden’s newborn outfits, I can hardly believe he wore them just four months ago. How has he grown so fast? How did time slip through my fingers so quietly? It’s heartbreaking to fold them for the last time. It’s heartbreaking to know we won’t do this again, heartbreaking to realize we will never feel these feelings again.
What I’m trying to say is… I feel two ways at once.
I’m learning that motherhood is full of contradictions — of “buts” and “boths” and “somedays.” I feel relieved that someday the baby years will be over and we can focus on nurturing the family we have, instead of growing it. But in the same breath, I feel a quiet ache that someday, the baby years will be over — and we’ll have no choice but to move on.
It’s wonderful. It’s painful. It’s both.
One day, the rocking chair will go. The crib and the bassinet, too.
But for now, I still fold tiny clothes. I take comfort in what’s left — sizes six months and up — and quietly mourn what’s already been outgrown.
Because one day, I won’t fold any tiny clothes at all.
My head knows it’s time to start letting go. But my heart? Well, it's still holding the baby clothes.
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