Before you become a parent, you think the times that will break your heart will only be the big ones—double-digit birthdays, learning to drive, going away to college, getting married, etc. I’ve just reached the first one of those events, and I can’t even imagine going through the others.
I can remember going to a friend’s wedding as a young parent and bawling my eyes out as we watched. My husband isn’t the most emotional person, so he asked me if I was okay.
“That’s going to be our son one day. We will have to watch as he officially leaves our family to start his own,” was my logical explanation.
“He’s only six months old! I think we have some time,” my husband replied as he laughed off my overly dramatic reaction.
Now that I am three kids deep with a teenager, a pre-teen, and an 8-year-old, I have realized it’s not just those big moments that crush your heart into a million little pieces. (I still haven’t lost my flair for the dramatic.)
One day, I was helping my youngest clean out her closet. She has a unique style and has happily mixed hand-me-downs from her older brother and her older sister. When we got to the items I had been strategically avoiding because I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of them, she repeatedly said, “Donate. Those are too small,” or, “No. I will never wear those.”
I couldn’t help but cry. Her closet was like a time portal to different versions of my kids. At that moment, I realized I had been saying goodbye over and over to the little versions of my kids as they grew into the big kids they were meant to be.
It is something you never really think about, let alone prepare your heart for as a parent, even though we all know it is the actual end goal of the job.
I miss the version of my son who lived for “Pajama Tuesdays.” When I had three kids 5-and-under, we had daily activities (preschool, gymnastics, music class, etc.) except on Tuesdays. So he would take advantage of the relaxed schedule and dress to match the vibes.
I miss the version of my son who was creative and carefree. He wouldn’t just wear a costume. He would wear a piece from at least four different costumes to make a custom one. He did it so often we couldn’t tell what was actually part of a costume or just his regular clothes. For this version of him, there was no difference.
I miss the version of my middle child who had to wear a long dress to church every Sunday, no matter the weather. She even inspired her friends in her class and created a “pretty long dress crew.” There were even requirements and a song for her club.
I miss the version of my middle child who only wore loud, vibrant biker shorts or leggings and went around filled to the brim with sass, a fake microphone in-hand as she sang at the top of her lungs (and more often than not got the words completely wrong) whatever song was popular that week.
I miss the version of my littlest who had to wear a leotard, either over or under other layers of clothing, just in case the opportunity to do a roll or a cartwheel presented itself. She would be ready.
I miss the version of my littlest who got so comfortable after the COVID shutdown that when the world went back to normal, she would only wear her sleeping dresses out in public. Even on a 90-degree summer day, she was in her long-sleeved nightgown. And then that version morphed into wearing only fuzzy full-body zip-up pajamas.
Those versions of my kids don’t exist anymore. All I have left are the memories and the clothes. So I kept them. I will tuck the clothes away for another day and probably pull them out during one of those other big moments I haven’t reached yet.
For now, my littlest, being the little emotional empath she is, grabbed one of the only fuzzy pajamas we have left that fit, and wore them all day. That was enough to put my heart back together while I enjoyed today’s version of my kids.
by Lori E. Angiel 
by Halle Goddard 
by Samantha Krieger 
