This weekend it was finally warm enough in Colorado to dig into my spring wardrobe. To honor the welcome pause in boot weather, I dusted off my favorite pair of gold flats—only to notice the […]
This weekend it was finally warm enough in Colorado to dig into my spring wardrobe. To honor the welcome pause in boot weather, I dusted off my favorite pair of gold flats—only to notice the toes were scuffed and blackened. As I tried to de-smudge them back to their original metallic glory, I realized why they were so beat up: Last year at this time I had no idea what my feet were doing because I couldn’t see them. I was a house. A ginormous, swollen, “she-looks-like-she’s-about-to-pop” house.
Although all of my flattest, comfiest shoes still bear the marks of my third-trimester shuffle, my clothes are a different story. It’s bizarre (and a little thrilling) to think there’s a whole section of my closet I haven’t touched in two years. It’s also funny because every time I pick up a springy frock, all I can think about is this time last year when I was fully engulfed in all-things-maternity and wondering what this whole parenthood thing was going to be like.
I really had no idea. I also had no idea that my moment of inner-closet wistfulness would kick off an entire weekend of nostalgia.
My obnoxious “Aww, remember last year when…” comments reached an all-time high on Saturday when we took part in the annual Fort Collins St. Patty’s Day 5k, the Sharin’ O’ the Green. Andy and I have been running it for years, including last year when I waddled my way through the course at a turtle’s pace. Even though this is technically the first time Bea was fully present for the festivities, by begging (and by “begging” I mean “screaming uncontrollably”) to be carried the last mile, she effectively turned our jog into a walk down maternity-memory lane, complete with the arched back and calf cramps. I couldn’t help but feel a little twinge of sentimentality as I hobbled across the finish line toting an extra 20 pounds.
I guess all this reminiscence is coming about because we’re inching closer to Bea’s first birthday, and many of our annual events and holidays are about to make the switch from her list of “firsts” to “seconds.” Of course her experiences will change and grow and become more exciting with every passing year, but it’s easy for these repeat events to open the floodgates to my memories—Bea’s first spring, her first trip to the park, her first teeny-tiny ruffled dress, her first back-breaking 5k—and to the ol’ tear ducts.
I’m not normally this sentimental, and even now my moments of nostalgia are relatively short-lived. After all, there’s not much time to sit and fondly remember my plump, immobile baby bundle when my very real, very active 11-month-old is attempting to swim in the toilet. But occasionally something tweaks my memory, and I can’t help but feel a bit syrupy and sniffly and shocked at the past year and how quickly Bea has grown.
I would say that I wish time would slow down, but it is nice to see my feet again … and my old spring wardrobe … and a healthy, giggly baby feeding herself cheese and climbing the stairs. The memories are sweet, but I’m realizing that the here-and-now of making them is a whole lot sweeter—even if it means my little Bea is growing up!