A Chair, a Playset, and a Realization

***Disclaimer: If you are about to send a five year old to Kindergarten, an eighteen year old to college, have a daughter get married, or are the emotional mother of a new baby, you might want to steer clear of this one. ;)

One time I cried about an over-stuffed chair. At a yard sale. And again later, at home, in the secret of my bed. That chair was one of our early marriage purchases, bought at some point before we had Emma. It came with a huge ottoman that was the perfect size for "burrito-ing" (swaddling) a baby, for changing a diaper, and later for a toddler pulling up. That chair (and its partner love seat and couch) was peed on, pooped on, spit up on, fed on, and a whole lot of loved on. It was in that chair that I battled Emma and her refusal to eat during her first few days. The day we brought Kelsey home from the hospital after her extended pediatric stay, I sat in that chair and tried everything I knew to make her stop fussing. And then I sat in it as I just wept with her. I sat in that chair every single time I nursed Emma or Kelsey. I doubt any piece of furniture has ever been the holder of any more baby snuggles than that chair. It was just the perfect shape and size to hold a mommy and her girl, whether her girl was brand new or three years old. Just after we finished our current house, we sold that furniture at a yard sale. As I watched that chair get loaded into the back of a truck and put that dirty $50 bill in my pocket, I knew I was watching the end of babies. And even though I knew I was READY for that ending, it still hurt. There are still days I wish I could cuddle up with a little downy head in the crook of my neck and smell that baby smell. And even in knowing that, I know that there were many tears shed in that chair, many nights of wishing the present would become the past and things would get easier.

Tonight I cried over a playset. Correction, I am CURRENTLY crying over a playset. I hadn't realized this until just now, but that playset came into our lives right around the time the chair went out. We bought it just after we moved into this house. I doubted it would ever come to completion because when Kraig opened up the box from Sam's, all of the stickers that labeled each piece of wood were laying in the bottom of the box where they had fallen from the heat. He had to measure EACH STICK OF WOOD and figure out which ones were A, B, C, and that stinking D. I am not exaggerating when I say he (and several other helpful people) spent about 26 hours working on that playset. And yet, it was so worthwhile. It has been home to little baby legs just learning to push on the swings, to hours of playing "school" in the upper house, to picnics on the platform, and to "club meetings". It has entertained kids during innumerable birthday parties and social gatherings.

I went out tonight to clean it out so that its new owners can pick it up tomorrow. The tangible evidence of childhood imaginations almost broke my heart. A bell hung by a string from the top to the ground... their doorbell. A whiteboard listed "club rules" and club members. Probably the cutest and what brought the most tears was a pair of "binoculars"... two toilet paper rolls glued together and attached by a string to the hook above the window. And there were the two little Strawberry Shortcake stools that sat inside.

See, the memories of that chair? I was present in all of those. I have crawled through the tunnel and spent time in the playhouse up top (and slid down the slide), but more of the memories of the playhouse don't include my presence. I was outside, but I certainly overheard (and chuckled at, and tweeted, and later repeated to Kraig) many of the conversations that took place inside. And so tomorrow, when I pocket the $125 and watch the playset get loaded in pieces onto a trailer to be taken to a new location to be played on by other kids, in some sense I'll be seeing the end of childhood, or at least young childhood. And I'm just not so sure this is an ending I AM ready for. I don't think I can say goodbye yet to toilet paper roll binoculars and campaign posters taped to walls. I still need the funny conversations and the separate but together presence.

Because I know that the next big thing... it won't even be as "mine" as that playset was... Every phase passes with less of my presence tied to it. And that's how it's supposed to be. Kids grow up and they need you less and you aren't as physically tied. But somehow, your heart feels more wrapped up than it ever did. I guess this is what parenting is... getting as much out of the moments, whether they are spent bouncing a screaming baby who refuses to be soothed or listening to two sisters as they sit on Strawberry Shortcake stools and call each other pretend names and practice a grownup world... all the while knowing that one day those moments will be gone and someone will drive away with a loaded-down truck, ushering in a new phase of life.