A Mother's Heart Aches

I took every last one down from the cabinet and put them in their own seperate bag and packed them away for what I am sure will seem like a lifetime. All of them, even her favorite one with Curious George on the front. I carefully washed each one, and made sure it was nice and dry, so that they would be sparkling clean for their next owner.

Thursday night, as it turned out, was her last bottle of milk.

Along with the bottles went the bibs and "spit rags." She's a big girl now, she feeds herself, and takes her night time milk in a sippy cup. A sippy cup she holds herself. A sippy cup that doesn't have Curious George on the front.

I sighed as I packed away her outgrown clothes last week, I smiled to myself as we picked out her new shoes last weekend, I wrinkled my brow when I realized we would have to get the next size diapers, I laughed when she sat on the potty and read a book...but Friday, when I packed away the last of the baby items--I cried. I guess I had just had enough of packing things away. Those bottles were the final tug at my maternal heart.

As I write this, my little princess is cuddling her favorite lamb and the bunny I had when I was an infant, and in a few hours she'll likely cry out for me. But, she won't need me to give her a warm bottle of milk. She'll doze off in a few minutes as I cradle her, and when I carry her back to her crib her long arms and legs will dangle, making it apparent that she is getting to big to carry across my arms. I will remember to turn sideways as we pass throughout the bedroom doors, so I don't bump her head or feet. I will kiss her and cover her up, and she will never remember how she got back to bed.

I often wonder if my own mother could have possibly felt this kind of heartache when she packed away my bottles. But, then again, she had Brian not long after me, and when he was finished with his baby things she probably celebrated.

My friends and family know that I celebrate each of Gracie's accomplishments. But tonight I think I will sit and sulk awhile. My heartaches, and as millions of mothers before me, I feel like complaining to any one who will listen that "my baby doesn't need me anymore!" I'll likely be fine by Monday, and I will applaud loudly when she masters another shape or color. But that night as I pour her milk into a sippy cup and warm it, I don't think anyone will blame me if I get misty and feel another relapse coming on.

**Picture is of Gracie's Papaw, when he and Mamaw got to see Gracie for the first time, our home, April 2, 2004***

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