I just sold my baby swing.
And I plan to sell more of my baby stuff in the coming days. Matthew isn't getting any younger and, as a rough and tumble nearly two-year-old, there is really no need to save infant paraphernalia.
My heart is heavy.
My heart is light.
And I wonder, can it exist as both for a time? Heavy for the sadness that this, in all likelihood, is the end of an era that spanned five years of time and brought such joy to us. Light for what is to come with these two boys as they grow and play and become men before my eyes.
I kissed the side of the swing just before the woman got here to take it home to her daughter. I told Garrett how special it was that his swing--and Matthew's--would be comforting a new little baby. But I'd be lying if I said that moments of the past 4 and a half years didn't flash through my memory.
The swing, empty and brand spanking new after I'd just built it, my abdomen full of my first born. Garrett, tiny and asleep in it as it rocked back and forth in our living room in southern California. Garrett, seemingly huge, wedged inside of it as I set it up to await Matthew's birth. Matthew, tiny and asleep as it rocked back and forth in the playroom upstairs and I sat, distraught, in the rocking chair and begged my voice not to betray my emotions as our lawyer walked me through the next step. Matthew, bigger and giggling as he batted at the toys on the tray and watched his big brother playing.
How do I begin to say goodbye to a swing that rocked my babies? Because they were babies once, these little boys. So you give it a kiss and send it on its way. It was doing no good sitting in my garage. Better for it to sway and curve with a new little life. Better for it to make new memories.