Bringing Home Baby

No, I do not have anything to share. PUH-LEAZE and NO THANK YOU!

I am sharing this post for a reason…I didn’t cook anything special to share with you. That’s right, everything I made this weekend was total, complete crap. So here is a non-foodie post for you.

I get upset when new recipes turn out bad. It makes me sad.

Maybe that’s why I was so emotional.

And because I was so emotional, I got sentimental.

I got sentimental because my 10 year old is now almost as tall as I am.

Which made me cry.

Which made me wish my almost as tall as me 10 year old was a little bitty baby again and I could hold him in my arms and rock him to sleep and sing him songs and nuzzle his face without being told to get away. Or at least wait until his friends leave.

I typcially don’t save a lot of things. But one thing that I made sure I kept was my kids “coming home” outfits. I kept them in a drawer and everytime I needed to remember how little they were, I would get them out of the drawer and stare at them for awhile until someone caught me blubbering or hugging clothes with no baby in them. My family may or may not think I’m nuts.

They’re not moms. They don’t get it.

They also don’t get hormonal. Not that I ever do.

Or cry at hockey games.

And recitals.

Or When Starbucks has just run out of petite vanilla scones.

They just don’t get it.

So, instead of keeping these special keepsakes tucked in a drawer, I decided to put them on display, lovingly hung on the wall in their play room.

Simply, place your baby’s outfit in a shadow box and pin it with decorative hat pins.

Don’t leave those special things in a drawer. They are special for a reason and deserve a place of their own where they can be enjoyed and cherished.


About Cluttercafe

Wife to a great guy. Mom to two active, wonderful kids. Full time working woman trying to keep it all together.
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6 Responses to Bringing Home Baby

  1. Mama says:

    I don’t think that the least little bit sappy. I am jealous that you did that and I did not. So when I come over with stick pins and try to nail you to the wall it is never to late to appreciate you. Love, Mom

  2. Leah says:

    Oh my gosh…this post made me tear up! I love what you did with their “coming home clothes”. I need to do something with my daughter’s outfit & this is perfect!

    I totally soak up my time with my baby girl (even last night when she didn’t want to sleep in her crib, so I slept with her on the couch in my arms…*yawn*)! These things are something only a Mother can understand!

    PS: I love Starbucks’ petite vanilla scones, too πŸ™‚
    PPS: Sorry you had some food “mishaps” this weekend. I’m right there with you…I had a pizza incident that went horribly wrong!

    • cluttercafe says:

      I snuggle with my daughter every night till she falls alseep. I don’t care what the books say about it. Until she doesn’t want me to, I’m there! It is one of the highlights of my day. Snuggling up with her, kissing her, smelling her clean hair and with no distractions we have such wonderful conversations. She tells me she wants me to snuggle her every night forever. I may just do that!
      Sorry about your pizza. Mine were soggy fried clams and a breakfast wrap that had issues πŸ™‚

  3. Charlotte hart says:

    I love you did that, what I have left is in the attic.
    I can still remember those days and tear up still.
    I love when we all get together and go through all
    the pictures when they were little. Their still my babies.
    Take Care, Char

  4. Tricia says:

    I too have a 9 year old that is almost as tall as me. I too cry at hockey games, and sometimes before them when that 9 year old comes out of the locker room and gives me his away jersey to wear in the stands during a playoff game, even though none of his friends did the same. I too snuggle my daughter every night and when she tells me she wants to do it forever, I agree, because my plan is to move in with her and have her support me when I am old and broke (see aforementioned hockey reference for the cause of my brokeness).

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