It took just over two years for this day to come, and I knew well ahead of time I would be sad when it happened. I was prepared, and yet, still. I am not.
She has worn her last onesie.
I remember the size NB ones ... that when I unwrapped from the package and laid flat, I thought there's no way a baby would ever be that small. I was wrong.
I made outfits out of onesies, layering the tiny tees to make them work for my winter baby.
There were the onesies the lil' dude's Godfather picked out, the ones Daddy liked best.
Then, there was the funny one I picked out special for my mini-Hollywood when I went on that work trip right after she was born.
That Hollywood phenom caught on!
And, as she grew, they grew. I knew the number '24 months' was as high as they'd go. I made sure we got our fill.
Some lazy summer days spent at home, the onesie became an outfit on its own. I'll miss that simplicity.
The last one. As her legs grew longer and independence stronger, I secretly liked that part of her was still a baby; that part of her clothed in a onesie wouldn't mean she was grown up.
But, she is. I tucked away all her onesies ... from sizes NB, 3mo., 6 ... 9, 12 ... 18, and 24.
They are nestled safely away with the rest of her bygone babyhood; the pacifiers, bottles. Her first pair of Uggs. The swaddling blankets, chew toys, and bibs declaring her first everything.
But onesie, it is you, inexplicably, I will miss the most.