The other day I was doing laundry and I finally remembered that one of Hayden’s baby outfits had fallen between the washing machine and the wall. After a little effort, I extracted the sleeper from its trap and tossed it in the wash with the rest of his clothes.
Once they were clean, I folded them (duh). As I was folding the little outfit, I noticed how small it was. It’s hard to believe my little guy was such a teeny tiny guy! I can barely remember it, but he was quite teeny tiny. See how small his face was compared to my hand?
When Hayden was so teeny tiny and every day it seemed like motherhood would kill me, that was my theory about why people had more children: because they’re so cute and tiny and seeing a small one when you’ve got a big one makes you all nostalgic and baby-hungry.
Now, though, I’m starting to change my mind. We’re finally moving into an easier phase of babyhood and I’m falling more and more in love with my little guy every day. I can finally think about the possibility of having another without questioning my sanity.
Then again, maybe that’s all the more reason to doubt my mental health.