Baby Y turned six months old a couple days ago, and we’re already retiring baby gear.

The swing is no longer the magical nap whisperer it once was, so we packed it up the other day. The activity mat has fallen out of favor as he starts to scoot around, so it’s going into storage. Our little guy is starting to sit on his own, rendering the Bumbo useless. The bouncy seat practically touches the floor under his weight, so its days are numbered, too.

The nursery closet is filling up with boxes of outgrown clothing – some still unworn – and too-small diapers we never got a chance to use. Most recently, our 19-pounder has grown so heavy and cramped in his beloved infant car seat that we just installed a convertible.

And maybe it’s kind of silly, but with every outgrown onesie and now-useless piece of equipment, I get a little melancholy and utter the ultimate mommy cliché: “My baby is growing up too fast.”

The irony is that the minutia of caring for a baby can make each day feel like it goes. on. forever. But taken together, the days seem to have evaporated – poof! – and the memory of the tiny infant who used to sleep for hours curled on my chest is already fading.

This is the very essence of parenthood, I know. Every milestone is bittersweet. And I’m sure parents of older kids would tell me that it just gets worse.

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Honestly, Baby Y is fantastic at this age. He’s starting to push up on his hands and knees and rock – crawling probably isn’t far off. He’s sitting. He can scoot backward at a pretty good clip. He just spouted his first two teeth. He can pop his pacifier in and out at will, and when I make a silly face at him, I’m nearly always rewarded by a mischievous, chubby-cheeked grin.

And so I’m trying to focus on the excitement of times to come – the new toys and gear that are symbolic of a thriving baby. A new high chair for starting solids. A shiny new jogging stroller for runs with Dad. The new car seat that will accommodate him until he’s 3, 4, even 5 years old. Toys that beep and bloop and are meant for purposes other than gnawing.

But that tiny summer baby? The one who required nothing more than a muslin blanket, a boob, and a warm embrace?

I miss him, too.


One week old… and six months.