New look, new room

Spent much of the weekend giving Sylvia her new room. She's not a baby anymore, and it is high time to let her graduate to a big girl room. So we cleaned Saturday, getting rid of toys, games, books, clothes - all stuff she has outgrown. We did this when we moved last year; we did it when we listed the house, when we packed, when we unpacked. And still, there was scads of crap to bag up and haul out.

It was also time to, sadly, let go of things she has just outgrown. Her room still held many remnants of the nursery it once was. So, gone are the baby quilt that hung on her rocking chair, the multi-colored clown from the dresser. When we moved here she wouldn't even put up some of the wall hangings, like the Pooh characters or the balloons; those I packed away for sentimental reasons, along with the crib bumper that I made. We're getting rid of the toy box and the primary-colored storage bins; we may have even sold them, giving me just enough to buy the artwork she wants for her new room.

She wanted purple, so purple it is. She chose a bed set in different shades of lavendar, geometric shapes. The walls are lavendar, and we found the perfect curtains (sadly, they only had one, so we'll have to wait until more come in - they have sequins ...). To replace the toy box and bins we bought an armoire at IKEA, which we are painting white. We'll shop for some accessories here in the next week or two.

I suppose it should make me sad, this very palpable marking of the passage of time. My youngest child is 8; she is growing up. There will be no more babies here. Intellectually, I know this; I made this concious choice. And it had to be. On some level, though, there is a grieving, a sense of loss. But it's fleeting. More of me is able to accept what must be.

But I held onto the Pooh house, the Legos, select baby toys. They'll be packed away.

I suppose my complacency has to with being so profoundly disturbed by the story in the news last week, where the parents surgically altered their brain-damaged daughter so she wouldn't grow anymore. Since I don't live their lives, I shouldn't pass judgment. I have three healthy daughters. But you have to let your children be who they are. Even when they're brain damaged, you can't stop time, arrest your child's growth where it's easier and more convenient for you. Critics say it smacks of eugenics, and I have to agree.

Thus I can deal with Sylvia growing up; it's all part of the natural order of things. Birth, life, taxes, death. Teenagers. Angst. Sigh.

The room will be cute. I love how happy it makes Sylvia. Her exact words? "I love it."

Makes it all worth it.