We spent Tuesday shifting out clothes in preparation for our (finally) cooler temperatures. Mr Perfect throws the Rosebud into the attic, gets the buckets of stored clothes down, and the boys spend the next several hours in their boxers while I throw articles of clothing at them to try on. (It's the only time mom plays, 'catch' with them, and they love it!) Laughter and giggling ensue as we have fun trying on pants that fall straight to the floor because they're still too big, high-fiving over clothes that fit great, (doubles if they're 'cool guy' clothes) and squeeze into shirts that are now so small we can barely peel them off.
So that rite-of-passage moment? Han Solo peeling off this shirt that is WAY too small . . .
Yes, it's a size 122. When the boys became ours in Poland, they came with the clothes on their backs and not a thing more. We had jeans with us, but spent that first day shopping for the rest of the clothing items they would need, heavy jackets (not for AZ, it was cold in Poland when we were there), shoes, shirts, sweaters, pjs and the like. Anyway, this was one of the shirts, and it's days in service to us are now over. It will head to another mom with a son a little younger than ours and probably live out the rest of it's life there.
It's a shirt. There is no huge sentimental connection there. But in a small way it leaves me touched. There are no baby blankets, pacifiers, or sacred teddy bears. But nonetheless, this is me, packing away the tiny onesie, for the last time.
(And yes, Han Solo has boxers on underneath that sweatshirt!)