Making Room

We started in the nursery.
He hasn’t slept there since July, but the room still smells faintly like baby shampoo and warm summer nights. The crib sits gathering dust now, but the changing table still leans against the wall, and the curtains still keep the light soft.

We didn’t have much of a plan—just the need to begin.
One box at a time, we opened the past. Tiny shirts with stretched-out necklines. Bibs with faint orange stains that will never wash out. Rattles that no longer rattle because their batteries died long ago.

Some things were easy to let go of. Others made us stop and just hold them for a moment, quiet.
I kept finding myself on the floor, cross-legged, shoes in one hand, memory in the other. His first sandals, still dusty from the yard. The swaddle blanket we wrapped him in when he was new and small and fragile.

The work spilled into the garage, where we dug through bins and shelves, pulling out more pieces of his babyhood. A stroller that hasn’t rolled in months. A tub of toys that used to live in the living room. The big bassinet that once filled half our bedroom floor.

It wasn’t a fast process. Some things ended up in bags for donation. Some things went onto Marketplace, waiting for strangers to come claim them. Some things went right back onto the shelf, not ready to leave us just yet.

We didn’t get it all done. The nursery still has a few corners we haven’t touched. The garage still holds boxes we will need to face. But even with the work unfinished, the house feels lighter. The rooms breathe a little easier.

It was a little sad, knowing that these things would no longer wait for him, that the part of his life when he needed them had ended.
Each one holds the shape of who he was, and it feels a little like saying goodbye to that version of him. We were making room—not just in the house, but in our lives as well.

Space for who he is now.
Space for who he will become.
Space for us, too, as we keep learning how to be parents to this bigger, braver version of him.

When we finished for the day, we found him running in the backyard, hair wild, shoes on the wrong feet, laughing so hard he could barely breathe. We stood there for a while, watching him. This boy who is no longer a baby, no longer the little one who needed swaddles and soft socks—this boy who still needs us, but in new ways.

And in that moment, with the boxes stacked by the door and the house just a little emptier, the future felt bright and full.

Even when I find myself wishing I could hold on just a little longer.