Several things are happening at once and, as a result, I'm having some...feelings.
One: We sent the baby swing and a box of clothes home with mom and dad to be stored until they might (or might not) be necessary again.
Two: I'm weaning Baby Girl.
Three: I'm turning 32 and an article from last year is plaguing me--something to the effect of "women are at their beauty peak at age 31."
As suggested in the previous post, I tend to be a little, well, keep-y. I'm also pretty sentimental. My hubby is the opposite--he'll throw all kinds of things away without the thought of sentiment. He's anti-sentiment. (Read that carefully, he loves all peoples. He dated a Jewish girl in high school, though that may have had less to do with her being Jewish and more to do with her being a cheerleader.)
I teared up as we packed away the swing. Sure did. For a swing.
The weaning process is terrible. I truly never imagined it would be so difficult--for me. I'm sure the baby will be fine.
I won't miss the neck pain, the back pain, or feeling like Mr. Mayfield might pull up a stool next to me soon, yellow jug in hand. And truly, baby teeth are little torture devices--why do people ever want to get nipple piercings? There are other gruesome details that I am, for everyone's sake, keeping to myself.
I will miss the built-in diet, the immediate bottle, and the pre-meal little slap she gives me on my side, coupled with the anticipatory smile.
And since I spent half of age 31 pregnant and the other half recovering from being pregnant, do I get a do-over? Year 32, you kind of snuck up on me, but I'm ready for you...right after I take a nap.