Recently, I came across a delightful photo of a friend’s little boy, perched happily in his high chair, a broad smile illuminating his face as he tackled mealtime. The scene was quintessential—food bits scattered across the tray and the pure joy of childhood captured in one snapshot. In that moment, my heart ached just a bit for those days filled with tiny hands and playful messes, even recalling the cumbersome high chair I spent years cleaning.
In the background of the photo, I noticed the familiar chaos of childhood—brightly colored toys strewn across the floor, a vivid reminder of days gone by. I could easily identify the brands: Little Tikes blue and Fisher-Price red. It seems like a lifetime spent surrounded by colorful plastic toys, board books with chewed corners, and the incessant sounds of vibrating bouncers and ExerSaucers. For ages, I thought my dining room would remain a playground, with no hope of reclaiming my space.
And then, just like that, things changed.
Looking around my home now, aside from a few pieces of kids’ art adorning the fridge and some framed masterpieces on the walls, it hardly feels like a house filled with children. A basket of Legos rests neatly by the coffee table, while a few stuffed animals are casually tossed on my youngest son’s bed, but that’s about it. The plastic toys and baby paraphernalia? All gone. Over the years, they have been replaced with more “grown-up” toys.
I can’t even remember the last time I tripped over a remote control car. Instead, I now find fishing poles, golf clubs, and skateboards cluttering the entryway. I parted with all my baby gear long ago—bouncy seats, strollers, portable cribs, swings, and even cloth diapers found new homes after deciding that four children were just right for me. I let go of those items with mixed emotions; sadness for the end of my baby days and excitement for this new stage of life that felt liberating.
Yet, there is one item I just can’t part with—the high chair.
My youngest is now 9, but when he was born, I invested in a beautiful Scandinavian high chair made of birchwood, designed to evolve from a high chair to a stylish stool that fits at the dining table. It still occupies a spot at the end of our table, and he still uses it.
I admit I’m clinging to it, perhaps in denial about his need for a chair that elevates him. He’s more than capable of sitting in a regular chair now. But I can’t let go of this high chair; it’s my last tangible link to those baby days. I remember when he was a grinning infant, babbling over a tray filled with carrots and puffs. I recall the toddler who chatted away while I tossed him grapes and cheese sticks, and the preschooler who learned to use a fork, always requesting ketchup and milk. Now, as I watch my 9-year-old in that chair, his long legs spilling out, I realize just how much I cherish this piece of furniture.
Recently, my 18-year-old casually strolled into the kitchen, grabbed a bag of chips, and plopped down in that very high chair, now a makeshift stool. I paused, suddenly transported back to the days when he was a chubby toddler, covered in spaghetti. We chatted about nothing important, but I couldn’t help but focus on that chair, and it dawned on me why I’m holding onto it.
I’m keeping that high chair for my future grandchildren.
Perhaps I’ll be waiting 8 or 10 years for that moment, but I have no rush. When my grown children bring their little ones over, filling my home once again with toys and baby gear, I suspect I won’t be eager for it to disappear. I’ve learned how quickly those moments can vanish.
Maybe I should have kept that crib after all.
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Summary
In this reflective piece, Sarah J. Thompson shares her bittersweet journey of letting go of babyhood while holding onto cherished memories, particularly through the symbolic high chair that bridges her past with the future. As she navigates a home now filled with older children, she contemplates the joys and fleeting nature of childhood, ultimately realizing the importance of saving keepsakes for future generations.