Hand-me-downs
I have two nieces who inherit all of my daughter’s outgrown clothes. I gratefully hand over a trashbag full of outgrown pieces each time I see them, and they’re happy to try them on, and will fight over who gets to wear what, or the appropriate time to wear a leotard or pajamas outside.
I see the clothes in photos in the family chat, and the pang I feel is a hard feeling to describe. Is it sentimentality? Nostalgia? A small part of me screams from inside, beating its fists against my ribs. Is it my heart? The dress is just a dress. But it represents so much more. That little part of me wants to grab the dress and hang on, while Time drags me by the ankles in the other direction. How dare these clothes continue on happily, after my baby wore them, seemingly yesterday. How dare these babies keep growing, keep outgrowing, keep handing the clothes down, down, down, until they’re out of sight and all I have are the memories of a toddler in a dress.
My son wore a sweatshirt the other day that had been too big for the last three years. It almost doesn’t fit him now, the sleeves starting to edge up past his wrists. How can he possibly be too big for that sweatshirt? It must have shrunk. It can’t possibly be that he has grown so much. I grasp the soft fabric between my fingers while Time sweeps the leg. Someone else will wear this sweatshirt next year.
My primal instinct is to try to claw the clothing back, to hold some tangible piece of the past and make believe that nothing has changed since my kids were small. If I hold the clothing, keep it, hoard it like a dragon hoards gold, then the memories won’t fade, the clothing won’t fade, my kids won’t grow out of their favorite pieces.
They’re just clothes, though. Just pieces of fabric sewn together. Getting the clothing back in my hands doesn’t actually stir my emotions, and it’s not like the clothes would fit my children even if I had them. I’m so happy to see someone else using the shirts and dresses, keeping them out of the landfill for a little longer.
It’s seeing small children in the clothing that stabs my heart. Being reminded that mine were once that small, remembering all the shenanigans that come with a child that small, while my own kids grow up, up, up.
Don’t get me wrong, I love so many things about the stage of life we’re in. My oldest deciding to take the initiative to empty the dishwasher twice last week is a big plus in the pro column. Being able to have more logical conversations with them is fun, and I love granting them more freedom and independence. But sometimes I miss their very little days.
I’ve taken to lifting weights twice a week, to build stamina and continue to be able to carry my kids around when they ask for it. They’re circling 50 pounds these days, and it’s no small feat to carry that up the stairs at bedtime. But I’ll do what I can to stretch these moments a little longer. To carry them a little farther. And take all the photos along the way. Because the dresses are getting shorter by the day.
Sometimes you have to be strong to multitask.