It occurred to me last night that parenting turns the mundane into milestones, causing strange emotional reactions. I had one of those while we were folding the laundry during “Desperate Housewives” (as we do every other Sunday night.) I had folded a tiny pair of Dylan’s underwear, and was putting them on his underwear pile when the hubby noted, “Awwww. Dylan has an underwear pile now.”
We’ve been in the throes of “potty training”/”potty learning” for the past week now, and Dylan has transitioned from diapers to underwear most of the time. Needless to say, it’s been a week of outfit changes, and a bit more laundry on Dylan’s part, but he’s getting it. For the last few days, he’s kept his diaper dry when he had one one, and kept himself dry when he had his underwear. Last night, the big deal was that he did No. 2 in the potty, something he’d only done at school to date, which earned him a Thomas the Train sticker.
I found myself getting misty-eyed that Dylan has an underwear pile. It’s just another sign that he’s growing up, and isn’t really a baby any more, even though I still think of him as one sometimes. (And in many ways he’ll always be our baby, to me.)
Of course we realized that it means the day we change our last diaper is on the horizon, and the diaper genie will be a thing of the past. But I still had a slight lump in my throat over the new underwear pile in our lives. It signifies the beginning of something, yes. But it signifies the end of something too. Something precious I’m sure I’ll miss just a little bit.
But I won’t miss diapers. Period.