Ok, this isn’t really an ode. I don’t write poetry. But “Tribute to a Table” doesn’t have the same ring to it, does it? Forgive me. The only rhyming that may happen here is purely coincidental.
Today, I sold a piece of my boys’ childhood on Craigslist. It was only last night when I listed it, and I honestly thought I’d have a little more time to be sad about it leaving our house. Instead, the bandaid was ripped off quickly, which is almost always better anyway, right?
The little wooden table and chairs set that Matt and I bought for Luke for (I think) Christmas when he was 1 now has a new home, with 3 other little boys who will love it and climb on and learn at it. We were given a (smallish, but adult-sized) table and chairs from some friends, and I’ll be refinishing them in the near future for use in the playroom.
It’s weird to me, and I’m sure I’ve commented about it before on here, how some things hit me hard when it’s time to move on. I mean, we all understand that taking the crib down for the last time is traumatic. And putting the potty chair in the trash after the last one is potty trained is cause for much celebration. But watching the boys simply outgrow something that was really meaningful is hard.
All of the boys learned how to draw shapes, write their names, and how to use scissors at that little table. They drew pictures, made cards for friends and family, made some fantastic Thanksgiving decorations and Luke went through his crazy tape obsession (oh my gosh, I forgot how adorable his homemade Christmas lights were) there.
Sigh. It’s just a table.