The attic

A friend recently adopted a sweet baby boy. It got me hunting for some of O’s old things possibly to hand down. Shaun is out of town so I crawled up into the attic instead up sending him up for a load. I was a bit overwhelmed at all the baby stuff camped out up there. And equally overwhelmed that soon enough we will be bringing it all back down again.
There were neatly labeled tubs filled with baby clothes. I found the first one and was shocked at how small they seemed. Owen is not quite three. Not so much time has passed. Especially compared to my old footlocker collecting dust in the back corner. It is filled with high school stuff like year books and letter jackets. That all seems worlds away. But these tubs, they are pretty recent additions to the attic.
I held a new baby recently at a baby shower and felt awkward all over again. Her head kind of flopped and I had forgotten about all those weird noises they make.
It is supposed to be easy this time around. I have all the stuff. I have done it before and we both survived. Suddenly three years seems like eons.
Despite the heat and dust and not-so-new parenting fears I still wanted to sit down and just pour through them. Remembering him in each outfit and with each toy. Maybe even getting to that highschool footlocker in the corner. I didn’t because that sweet babe I was remembering was pouring windex all over the garage floor and getting into who knows what else.
It made me want to come back to my attic later when I had time to savor everything.
I remember being little and sneaking into ours and going through suitcases, boxes and pictures. I was trying to discover what I did not know about my family’s past. The attic always felt special.
And they are.
Most people thing of their attic as where they put all their Christmas decorations and their junk – but the truth is most of them are filled with memories. Some even come packaged neatly in blue tubs.