When my girls were little kids, I spent hours rearranging their dressers and closets each time they moved to the next size. I’d pack my eldest’s clothes in plastic storage bins and shove them in the basement for three to four years until my youngest grew enough to wear them. Any clothes that survived through two children were placed in bags for my nieces.
This process occurred often in the baby and toddler years. Clothes rarely had time to wear out. But sometime around second grade, things slowed. Leggings stretched and tore. Shirts caught one too many ice cream drips to save. A favorite hoodie held on for years instead of months.
One day, I looked up and realized I no longer had little kids. Neither did my friends. We lived solidly in the realm of tweendom.
We all lost to the pandemic. Some more than others. But even those of us who muddled through relatively unscathed lost so many memories. Family vacations we’ll never take. Birthday parties we’ll never host. Countless milestones we didn’t celebrate in the usual way.
For a full year, my world narrowed to my husband and two girls. It was stressful and heartbreaking, but as terrible as it was, I’m grateful my kids were the ages they were: old enough to not need constant supervision, but young enough to actually want to spend time with me. I never planned to be a teacher’s aide to a pair of elementary students, but we got through it together.
My youngest was in kindergarten in March 2020. As the pandemic stretched on, she grew from a little kid to a big kid. My oldest went from a big kid to a preteen.
As we reentered the world, our bathroom counters were suddenly littered with lip gloss and jewelry. My own dresser became back up for last-minute sweaters to match a dress. Then, the holy sh*t moment when I realized my oldest daughter and I wear the same size.
We’d moved from the kids’ section to the areas of stores that only sell half shirts. Seriously, try to find a shirt that covers a naval in the junior’s section. I dare you.
I comfort myself with the knowledge that my youngest still fits into princess dresses and believes in all the magic of childhood. But my time is coming. Any day now.
I want to live in every moment because I know they’re numbered. And whenever I start to feel a little weepy about transitioning to this next stage of parenting, I remind myself of the benefits.
I can take a shower without worrying someone will climb a bookcase and parkour onto the chandelier. No one eats the mystery cracker on the couch. No one picks it up either, except me, but baby steps.
I watch movies I actually like with my oldest. We talk about books we’ve both read. She bakes things I willingly eat. I trust her opinion on my outfits. Want a brutal assessment of your appearance? Ask a middle-school girl.
Every piece of their childhood we leave behind creates a gap. They need me less. They want me less.
I now have time for the interests I put on the shelf for a while. As they grow, I find myself stepping back into a stronger version of the woman I was before they were born. Motherhood has made me much more compassionate and less fearful of things like embarrassment and failure. Because let’s face it, I’ve embarrassed myself and failed enough over the years to learn from my mistakes and move on.
My little kids may have gone, but I can’t wait to meet all the versions they’ll be on the way to the women they’ll become.
Kathryn Hively
Latest posts by Kathryn Hively (see all)
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