Little babies grow too fast. Even if you let laundry swallow your house, even if you baby-wear, co-sleep, and never let an hour pass without you kissing their fat cheeks, babies still grow too fast.
Their legs too fat, their bodies too long, and long before their clothes develop any signs of wear, the snaps are too far apart to fasten. Beloved barely worn clothes must be passed on or put up with the hope of another baby one day.
In our house, my husband and I loved the same outfit. We called it pocket dragon.
See there’s a pocket and a dragon. Oh we loved this thing. Each time we stuffed our little baby in, we’d hope for one more week until finally his little sausage self left no room to give.
Those were hard days, where honestly adjusting to parenthood was the easiest part of our lives. To get through, we focused on the little happies like pocket dragon.
When we had our positive pregnancy test with number two, visions of baby rolls spilling out of pocket dragon filled my mind. The first day it was warm enough and she was big enough, I gleefully unfolded pocket dragon. It’d been four years, and yet I melted.
I immediately took photos of pocket dragon’s return to send to my husband, but I decided to let him see for himself when he got home. When he walked in the door that night, he scooped her up and said, “You’ve got on pocket dragon!” I don’t remember anything else from that day.
That’s what babyhood is about. Forgetting the aches, the stitches, the thrush, the nights with too little sleep, the gassy tear-filled days, and instead fixating on the smiles, the coos, the details like the blue scales and orange horns of a green dragon leaning precariously out of a pocket.
This baby, our planned last, is growing too fast. Soon pocket dragon will return to the attic, until we as crazed grandparents can once again run our fingers over those familiar stitches.