Changing Seasons: A Lesson in Letting Go

Although I feel excited by change, whether it’s the seasons or a different place to vacation, I often struggle with adjusting to the varying conditions that accompany it.

I still remember those “butterflies” in my stomach during the first month of school, when I was a student and after I became a teacher. Family, friends and even strangers often warned me time would be fleeting when my children were born. I never really understood why I heard this comment so much.

Then I realized, until you experience parenting first hand, it’s hard to imagine the brevity of each magical moment. To all new moms and dads, please know baby’s first few years truly are over in what seems to be a mere blink of the eye—so enjoy them as much as you can!

Every year as the weather changes and a new season is upon us, I procrastinate the sorting and storing of my boys’ clothing. “It’s such an arduous task”—-I mumble to myself—-each time I stuff more garments into their already overloaded drawers, all filled with items from last season. Once I finally begin surveying their inventory, my practical side reassures me my children will be able to fit into these outfits for “just one more year,” even though my pragmatic side secretly knows my boys’ growth spurt has been constant, so they will most likely be unable to wear much of their previous year’s wardrobe.

So why do I continue to save their outfits even after they’ve outgrown them? The moment I hold my boys’ clothes close, pressing them against my cheek, a deep emotional process gets triggered and, I believe, it is the underlying reason I dread the season’s end: I am forced to acknowledge my once babies—-now three and almost, five—-are growing and, like the seasons, constantly changing; worst of all, I have absolutely no control in slowing this natural process.

Their clothing has become one of the few symbols that have helped me visit their first years of life. Ironically, it was their first years—-especially all the frenzy given they’re only eighteen months a part in age—-when I was so sleep deprived and somewhat comatose; I often felt as if I was moving in slow motion.

Yet, that span of time now seems to have passed within a few weeks and blinks of an eye. Maybe by holding onto their garments and other tokens, I can hold onto the past for a little longer.

When I heard one of my son’s nursery schools was hosting its annual “Rummage Sale,” I proclaimed it would be a good time to finally “clean out my closets.” Naturally, I was filled with enthusiasm and ambition as I grabbed and piled their clothes high. This time, prepared with bags and boxes, I browsed over these remnants from our past—organized from smallest to largest in size.

Again, once I held them, I was forced to take a stroll down memory lane, a street filled with so many powerful emotions. I thought, “If these clothes could speak, oh, the memories they would share.” The two ivory, woolen sweaters, given to my sons soon after their birth, would boast about how agreeable our boys were when we went to a photo studio to get their first professional picture together. They had to wait over two hours, and still, they were smiling. The denim overalls would giggle remembering how our twosome charged through the pumpkin patch, from a distance appearing as ants running through a maze of orange boulders. And the prim and proper three-piece outfits worn to church events such as Christenings, Communions and Easter Sundays, would share how unsettling it was when our children, now able to walk (or should I say, run)—-and their parents who were chasing after them—-couldn’t sit still for more than a few minutes in the churches they made a quick and early departure from.

As I remember my boys’ expressions during these times and the people we’ve shared many incredible and beautifully simple moments together, I am both grateful and melancholy. Can I freeze time for just a little longer?

A few days ago, I agreed to meet my husband and my younger son for breakfast at a nearby bagel shop while our older son was at nursery school. When I arrived, I looked into the shop from the outside glass door, just to get a glimpse of my “boys” (including my husband). I was surprised when I saw my husband but couldn’t find our younger son, so I searched the small crowd again. After a second glance, I was stunned! I gasped! The “big boy” right in front of me opening the refrigerator door with one hand and waving to me with the other was MY SON!

I watched as he selected his own carton of juice, sat down at the table and began tearing pieces of the buttered-bagel with his teeth. Like a director, he motioned for me to enter, and as his dutiful mother, I followed his directive—-lunging toward him—-kissing his sweet cheek and squeezing him so tightly he said, “Mommy, you’re hurting me. Please, let go.” I wanted to tell him it’s not so easy this “letting go,” although I was working on it as part of my growing process as a parent.

But my son would have simply grinned as he always does, so confident I am wrapped around his little finger (well, not so little anymore). His smirk would widen knowing I am in awe of his total being and the simple joy he experiences in living each moment to its fullest. As he ravaged another bite of his bagel, still trying to release my tightly woven hands; he looked at me, all the while smiling with his pearly whites, and ordered me to “let go”. I gradually let him slip away from my hold, trying to hang on to the moment—-like his belongings—-like his toddler years—-as long as possible.

And, so it was a gradual release when I brought some of my children’s belongings, the ones I was able to relinquish, to the Rummage Sale. It was a comforting thought others would benefit from my boys’ “stuff ” and create new and lasting memories. I know these items are material and fleeting; unlike the timeless and precious moments we have shared as a family.

I was reassured of this when I joined other volunteers for the set-up of the sale. Like Macy’s “Preview Day,” shoppers, mostly moms, were putting some great “finds” into their piles. There were a lot of tender words as infant and children’s outfits were held high in the air while stories were shared. Parents were in wonderful spirits as they donated one of the greatest of all gifts: their time.

While I was organizing some books, I found several I thought my boys would enjoy. I discovered the books had belonged to the children of another mom, who happened to be working next to me. I just met her that day and thought she was one of the sweetest people I’ve ever spoken with. She graciously shared how much her kids loved reading the stories and how her sister had given the books to her children as gifts. I truly felt honored there was a piece of history being shared between our families.

Isn’t that what community is all about? Still, if you happen to unpack or purchase any of my boys’ belongings at next year’s Rummage Sale, you’ll have to wash away the tears. Like sad songs about couples “breaking-up,” setting children free to grow-up is so very “hard to do.”

Donna Scrima-Black is an author (MommyBest: 13 Inspirational Lessons Derek & Dylan’s Mom (and maybe yours) Never Learned in School) and mom. She is a former advertising executive and teacher who earned her Master’s Degree at Fordham University. Her greatest accomplishment is raising her two boys, her two joys!

Editor’s note: Leave your thoughts and comments below and you could be a lucky winner of Donna’s book MommyBest: 13 Inspirational Lessons Derek and Dylan’s Mom (and maybe yours) Never Learned in School!