Retiring from the club

Although time at home marches at a snail's pace on a daily basis, when Friday is upon me I suddenly realize that another week has gone by and my kids are becoming little boys and only trace amounts remain of anything baby.

Okay. So Peyton is still regarded in age by months, and in the big picture is still a baby, but not baby in the sense of cooing-and-yearning-to-be-held-in-my-arms baby. And Mason, is nearly 2 1/2. He is definitely of the age when "half" is a mighty big deal, and so on Saturday he will officially be 2 1/2. But, frankly, they're aging too quickly for my liking.

The other week I caught up with a friend from high school who just welcomed his second baby girl to his growing family. His first daughter is not quite two, and thus has joined a club I formerly understood well: 2 under 2.

While I know that having two mini me's under twenty-four months is a not a large feat in light of octomoms and quadromoms and families exceeding any normal standard in terms of offspring. For me, however, it was a big deal.

Two years ago, after adjusting to the perks of normal clothing, the joy of being able to see my feet again, and bypassing the maternity section with confidence, I learned I was pregnant again on Good Friday. Mason was all but five months old. Out came the same blasted maternity clothes that I so happily packed away, and with it came the nausea and exhaustion that only arrives with a little human growing inside.

When the time came for Peyton to be born, I felt Mason was this ridiculously mature and independent young boy, but really was only two months younger than Peyton is now. Their births are separated by 14 months and 4 days. Now Peyton is nearing his 16th month and I can no longer wear the "2 under 2" badge.

I sort of despise that.

But my friend can wear that badge proudly [and quite groggily], and I'm sure he and his wife are doing fabulously at it. It is draining, and tiring and I need not emphasize so much of this because if you are a parent you are sitting there nodding your head in agreement. But once you get past the incessant exhaustion your infant becomes more mature and you hear of a friend's new baby, or you see a little newborn nestled in her stroller, and you know that though your kids are still relatively young they are in fact no longer in that newborn camp.

And I guess I honestly miss that. Peyton is no longer content sitting on my lap or playing patty cake. Hello? He's a toddling boy who is nearing his one-and-a-half birthday. Why would he want his crazy, emotionally wired mom ogling at him in his face wishing he were still young enough to enjoy this pastime? But I do so miss the tiny onesies, and swaddling, and iddy-bitty hands that grasp onto my pinky making it look of gigantic proportion.

I've been treading over this beaten path for a while now, knowing that we are 99.985% certain there will be no more babies in this home [of the human variety]. Two weeks ago I threw up out of the blue without any signs of flu or food poisoning. Then I was drastically tired thereafter wondering what in the world was wrong with me. Things started smelling incredibly pungent to my nose and I kept myself up for a few nights with my mind running a thought marathon as to what we were going to do with this imaginary baby growing inside of me. What else could explain all of the peculiar pregnancy symptoms? My rational brain cell intercepted this fantasy and concluded that my menstrual cycle is like clockwork now and I haven't missed my friend for about 16 months so I avoided the $15 cost of a home pregnancy test and accepted that no matter how much I am willing that tiny miracle again, I am not pregnant.

It's the process of retiring my "2 under 2" badge that has gotten to me. First, it was the empty, unused bassinet that sat in our room for months until my friend needed it for her newborn, since Peyton quickly outgrew it. It's the long overdue haircut that I just gave Peyton who was bordering on the ownership of a toddler mullet because I didn't want to have to do that first cut; because his first haircut meant the last time I would see his fine baby hairs. It's the pack 'n play that continues to sit in our room now, where the bassinet formerly resided, that Peyton once used to nap. But he hasn't slept in there for four months. It's a void I'm choosing to fill because moving it will be another reminder that, yes they're growing up.

Don't get me wrong. I love all of the new things they're doing now. I love the degree of quirkiness that Peyton shouts "Ma-meeeeee!" with a proud little grin on his face. And the full sprint colliding hugs I get from Mason out of the blue with a kiss landing smack dab on my lips. I enjoy the forward roll that he continues to practice daily, and the 5-word sentences he's putting together.

However, retirement by its very nature can be a bittersweet accomplishment. It's a celebration of working so damn hard, but I think retirement can also mean closing a chapter that is often times missed down the road. And I know the forfeit of my "2 under 2" badge is one of small magnitude but I haven't underestimated the challenge that club brought. I am proud to be an alumn. I don't yearn for baby puke, twelve feedings a day accompanied with equivalent diaper changes, or the shrill ear piercing newborn cry.

But the aforementioned good stuff? Yea. I miss that. And most certainly always will.