Newborn onsies don't fit Nate anymore. Newborn sleepers pull at his three-month-old shoulders, stretched too tight over his three-month-old toes. I am folding tiny clothes for storage in the nursery closet. I am folding memories of tiny newborns for storage here. But, first. First. I want to shake them out. Gaze at them, run my hand over them one more time.
The way they curl into your shoulder, harvest squash bottoms a perfect handful in your palm.
The way they root blindly for your nipple, mouths working, heads turned too far or not far enough.
The way they stretch back over your hand when their nickel-sized stomachs are full, arms behind their heads in a parody of a sated little old man, milk dribbling down their chins.
The rhythmic gulp when they find their stride and guzzle milk greedily.
Their deep, sudden sleep, head cranked back, mouth open, milk-drunk, lost in a comfort induced haze.
He's beyond all that already. When he nurses, his eyes find mine, intelligent and questioning, he breaks the suction to smile delighted at my face and then claims his prize again with a self satisfied wiggle. He knows things now. He's no blind kitten in my arms. He stretches his curious prairie dog neck over my shoulder to see the world when I hold him. He watches his brothers and sister with an avid, interested gaze. He'll be running the race with them in no time, mimicking Cue's signature phrase, "Mine coming. Mine coming. Age. Garreh. Mine coming."
Babynater coos for my attention. I never noticed that with Gee or Cue. Is it because I was so novice, so fixed on doing things right that I missed the details? Or is it because I am so busy this time, this child must be creative, find ways to draw my eyes?
No one asks me now, oh, such a brand new one, when was he born? He's not a novelty, not new, just a baby, a big, chubby baby. They focus on him, he demands his own time, shines his own light. He doesn't like to be ignored. It's a good trait for a fourth child, this quiet, joyful quest for attention.
I relish our quiet mornings together, Cue and Babynater and I. I roll, briefly each day, in the ease of being a mom to two. One toddler. One baby. We meet friends for coffee. We run errands. We have time and sufficient hands for silliness, for dallying to pet dogs or buy flowers at the market. Even as I love the freedom, I mourn it. It comes at the price of Ess and Gee's babyhood. It's a toll I'm forced to pay, so I might as well enjoy it.
I pull the last clean newborn sleepers and onsies from the laundry basket and hold them each a moment. Can it really be that on the day, maybe a week ago (okay, maybe ten days), when these were soiled and thrown carelessly into the corner hamper, that they fit him, if only barely. Not today. I hold them to him, hopeful. Maybe just one more time. They are laughably small.
Into the box. Into the closet. What else is there to do? Onward to three to six months and rolling and sleeping (a mother can hope) and holding up your head and grabbing. Onward into two and tantrums and sentences with correct pronouns and jumping and potty training. Onward four-year-olds, to preschool, to the playground on your own, to art class and talking back and friends that you choose, whose parents I don't even know.
I'll stop a moment to fold what you leave behind and store it carefully, like petals between the pages of a heavy book. I won't even cry, much. After all, three-month-olds are pretty darn cute.
And two-year-olds aren't half bad.
And fiercely independent preschoolers are break-your-heart beautiful.
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