Newbie No More

Eight fleeting months ago, I stood in Cass’ nursery, begging the bird decals flying above his crib to help me get him to sleep. I tried everything, and out of sheer frustration, I cried right along with Cass, who was wailing uncontrollably in my tired arms.

Now just shy of nine months, he falls asleep without argument—with no back-rubbing, pacing, rocking or nursing. And I can’t believe I’m admitting this: but on occasion I miss dearly those tedious rituals that once drove me to plead with bird-shaped stickers.

But newborn nostalgia does funny things to a new mom.

Like keeping infant clothes in his credenza that haven’t fit him for months. I remove ridiculously small cardigan sweaters, stacks of tiny onesies, a pair of seersucker pants. Then, almost against my will, I start refolding, placing these outgrown clothes—some of which he didn’t even wear when they actually fit—back onto the shelves in neat, perfect piles, telling myself I don’t have anywhere to store them (a bold-faced lie!). Because I can’t bear to admit that he is wearing 12-month-old sizes, that my baby isn’t a newborn anymore.

Perhaps I am starting to understand the heartbreak of being a parent. At the same time I look forward to all Cass’ growth and the development of that sweet personality, there’s a layer of sadness quietly lurking underneath all the excitement—that no amount of happiness and pride can completely diminish. Almost every day, there’s an arbitrary moment that gives me pause. I stare intently at Cass, trying to imprint some distinctive expression in my memory, knowing that someday soon it will be replaced by another. And I’ll forget what it feels like to hold the chubby hands of my nine-month-old as he learns to totter, just like I’m already forgetting what it feels like to doze off with a sleeping newborn warming my chest with his itty-bitty body.