I threw the stuffed animals away today. Some were harder than others. I could say I don't know why, but I'd be lying. The little grey elephant sat on a shelf in our very first nursery, shipped overseas with a crib and the ridiculously expensive bedding I carefully selected. We were so far from home when our first baby was born. The four grubby white bears holding hearts perched on our kids' plates three Valentine's Days ago, Mylar balloons tied to the back of each chair.
They've sat with so many others collecting dust on a bench in the basement for years now. When I counted the months and marked milestones with hundreds of pictures, I never thought about the day I'd be holding a faded grey elephant I bought when we learned I was pregnant and realize that was a decade ago.
Our Great Dane, Hampton Noodle, had a heart attack when I walked out the back door, arms loaded with soft, chewy souvenirs of our babies. Surely all of those incredible dog toys were not going into the trash can? I tossed him a stuffed bear, resigning myself to a yard full of murdered bear innards, closed my eyes tight against the pain of stages past, and pitched the rest.
It wasn't as hard as I thought. We're moving to a smaller house in a less expensive part of our area. Not because we have to move or we can't afford to stay or even because we don't need the space. Our family now grows in shoe sizes and appetites not new births and it's a little scary. We're moving because we think we can have less, store less, hang onto less and maybe be a little happier. We might even save enough money on utilities to go on vacation somewhere warm in February. Because—major first world problem alert—I'm tired of cleaning four bathrooms. We know we can make it work and be more deliberate about the material things in our daily environment. We know it is a good step for us to have less storage space, less places where decade old baby toys can go to hide.
I threw away my wedding flowers last week. I told myself it was not the brittle flowers that made my heart ache, it was the memory of the blues that day. Delphinium in my hands, midnight blue dresses on my sisters. Matt's slate blue eyes fixed on mine. I don't need flowers to remind me of that, I only have to look at my boys' storm grey eyes.
The new house is going to have a grey kitchen and a new couch that will NOT (I swear) become a dog bed. Four bedrooms with bunk beds. No more toddler beds. Colors and patterns repeat in our lives if we look for them. Nothing is every completely left behind because our subconscious knows what we need. For me, it is grey, blue, and the number four.
White fluff covered the yard. Dead teddy bear scattered everywhere. Memories of my babies literally gone to the dog. The kids and I chased it, laughing, fighting the dog for the last bits of mangled furry ear, doing what children do. They make new games out of memories.
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