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The Final High Chair: Bidding Farewell to Babyhood
I recently stumbled upon a photo of a friend’s charming little boy, beaming from his high chair as he enjoyed a meal. Food was scattered everywhere, and that joyful grin was so infectious it made my 44-year-old ovaries do a little jig. For a fleeting moment, I found myself reminiscing about those chaotic mealtimes with little ones and even the bulky high chair with its plastic seat covers that I felt I spent eons cleaning.
In the backdrop of that delightful snapshot, I noticed a smattering of bright toys strewn across the floor—red, blue, and yellow little treasures that immediately brought to mind their manufacturers. Little Tikes in blue and Fisher-Price in red were like old friends I couldn’t forget. I recall feeling as if my home was perpetually occupied by a riot of blinking toys, board books with teeth marks, vibrating bouncers, brain-boosting ExerSaucers, and massive yellow construction trucks that my little boys pushed into every corner of my kitchen. At one point, I was convinced my dining room was destined to be a playgroup hub forever. It seemed like I would never reclaim my space.
And then, just like that, I did.
Looking around now, aside from a fridge plastered with kids’ artwork and a few framed pieces adorning the walls, you might not even guess kids had ever lived here. A basket of Legos is neatly tucked under the coffee table, and a couple of stuffed animals are casually tossed across my youngest son’s bed, but that’s about it. All the plastic, the toys, the baby gear? Vanished. Over time, those toys were gradually replaced by “big boy” items.
It’s been ages since I tripped over a remote control car. Now, my entryway is cluttered with fishing poles, golf clubs, and skateboards. I’ve long parted with all my baby gear—bouncy seats, strollers, portable cribs, swings, and even cloth diapers have been happily passed along. I let them go soon after I decided that four children were plenty for me. I admit I felt a bittersweet pang—sad that the baby days were behind me, but excited to embrace this new, baby-free chapter of life.
Yet there’s one item I couldn’t part with—the high chair.
My youngest is now 9, but when he was born, I splurged on one of those stylish Scandinavian-designed high chairs crafted from birchwood. It was meant to transition into a regular stool that could be pushed up to the dinner table. That very chair still resides at the end of our table, and yes, he still uses it.
I’ll confess—I’m in denial about his need for it. He’s perfectly capable of sitting in an adult-sized chair, but I can’t bring myself to let go of this piece of furniture. It’s my last tangible link to the days when I had babies in the house. I can still picture that big-cheeked baby sitting there, happily babbling behind a tray of carrots and cereal puffs. I remember the toddler who would chatter away as I tossed him grapes and cheese sticks. I can even envision the preschooler demanding ketchup and more milk while expertly wielding a fork. And now, as I gaze at my 9-year-old perched in that chair, his long legs spilling over the footrests, I know I just can’t part with it.
And I won’t.
Recently, my 18-year-old strolled into the kitchen, snagged a bag of chips, and plopped down in the high chair-turned-stool. My heart skipped a beat. In that moment, I was transported back to when he was just a little guy, covered in spaghetti and giggles. We chatted about nothing in particular, but my eyes kept drifting back to that chair, and suddenly it hit me—I’m holding onto it for his future children, my grandchildren.
I might have to wait 8 to 10 years for that, but I’m in no rush. When my home once again fills with plastic toys and baby gadgets dropped off by my grown children, I have a feeling I won’t be anxious for it all to disappear. I know too well how quickly those baby days can vanish.
Perhaps I should have kept that crib after all.
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Summary
This piece reflects on the bittersweet emotions tied to motherhood as the author reminisces about her experiences with babyhood, particularly focusing on the high chair that remains as a symbol of those cherished moments. As her children grow, she finds herself holding onto the remnants of their early years, realizing that perhaps the next generation will soon bring back those memories.