Finally. It’s happening. We are leaving seasons in the dust. Time that I have longed for has arrived, and it looks nothing like I expected. It looks everything like what it is. Unpredictable.
Did I think it would be predictable once we were out of pregnancy, babyhood, toddlerhood, preschoolhood? Once I came up for air and got my footing?
I didn’t have time to think, there was too much to do.
My baby will be five for a few weeks more. That’s it. Whatever comes after her gets left behind. Cleaning out drawers and closets means she’s the end of the line. Anything smaller than size 7 hits the giveaway bag.
Unless it’s really special and save-worthy, it’s gone.
One of this week’s goals is to get through the monstrous invasion of girls’ clothing and switch out the seasons. Dressers need to be purged and organized and laundry buckets weeded. Going through clothing, some of which has graced all three girls, is challenging physically and, I hate to say it, emotionally.
I finally have time to feel them, those letting-go feelings, and they are showing up in clothing.
There’s a lot to let go of, and my hand and heart are struggling to loosen their grip. If I can’t let go of the cute chickadee shirt tonight, it’s going to be really hard to let go of my grown-up chicken in 18 days.
It’s not really about letting go so much as it is about opening up. Opening up space for order. Opening up space for love. Opening to possibilities and change and growing into the future.
Outgrowing old patterns and growing into new ones is hard on this heart of mine.