Goodbye Cribbie

The crib came apart too easily. Just a few turns of the screwdriver and it was lined up against the wall, just a few sad pieces of wood.

I called to Juliette to come up and say goodbye to her crib. She called out a hasty goodbye as she ran to caress her hot pink big girl toddler bed.

I was left alone, fighting back the tears as I examined each of the carefully selected hand painted decorations: the pink bunny with the cockeyed ear, the soft yellow chicks, and the five fluffy sheep. Each animal was still as achingly adorable as they were eight years ago when motherhood was still the promise of my swollen belly.

I've spent many nights singing French lullabies over the side of this crib to three different children. In all that time, the cribbie has never had more than a few months of vacancy until it was claimed by the next little swaddled body.

Even though life is utter chaos with three monsters running around, the thought that this crib may not hold another one of my children makes me ache inside. I can't imagine having another child. Can't imagine making our family larger, carting around a fourth barefoot child through airport security. But try as I might, I can't bring myself to say I'm done, to say that I'll never feel that faint flutter in the pit of my stomach, or the warmth of that tiny infant hand against my giant palm.

Once the last screw was removed, Steve and I carried the crib down to the basement. We stacked it in a corner storage closet, turned off the light and closed the door.

Goodbye cribbie. For now.