By: Julia M. Carter
Updated: Dec. 17, 2020
Originally Published: Oct. 13, 2016
Recently, I stumbled upon a delightful photo of a friend’s little boy, blissfully seated in a high chair, his tray adorned with colorful bits of food and a beaming smile that made my heart flutter. For a brief moment, I yearned for those chaotic mealtimes with tiny tots, even reminiscing about that cumbersome high chair I spent years cleaning.
In the background of the image, I noticed a familiar scene — vibrant toys scattered across the floor. The memories rushed back, as I could almost hear the jingles of Little Tikes and Fisher-Price toys echoing in my mind. Those days felt endless, surrounded by a whirlwind of noisy toys, board books with chewed edges, bouncers, and all sorts of gadgets designed to entertain. My dining room seemed destined to be a permanent play zone, and I feared I’d never reclaim my space.
But the years passed, and I did reclaim my home. Now, aside from some cherished kids’ artwork adorning the fridge and a few scattered Legos, it feels like a grown-up space again. The once abundant plastic toys have been replaced by more mature items. I can’t remember the last time I stumbled over a toy car; now, fishing rods, golf clubs, and skateboards fill my entryway instead.
Having decided that four children was sufficient, I gradually parted with all things baby — bouncers, strollers, swings, and even cloth diapers found their way to new homes. Although I felt bittersweet about closing that chapter, I was ready to embrace this new, baby-free phase of life.
Yet, one item remains: the high chair. My youngest is now 9, but when he was born, I invested in a Scandinavian-designed birchwood high chair that could transition into a stylish stool for the dining table. It still occupies a spot at the end of our table, and he still uses it.
I must admit, I’m somewhat in denial about his need for it. He could easily sit in an adult chair now, but I cling to this piece of furniture. It stands as my last tangible link to the days of babies in the house. I can still picture that grinning baby in the high chair, making a mess with carrots and cereal puffs. I remember the toddler who would chat while I tossed snacks his way, and the preschooler demanding ketchup with every meal. Now, as I watch my 9-year-old’s legs dangle awkwardly over the footrests, I realize I can’t bear to part with this high chair.
Recently, my 18-year-old sauntered into the kitchen and plopped down into the high chair, which has now become more of a stool. I froze, instantly transported back to the image of him in that very chair, covered in spaghetti, all those years ago. As we chatted, I couldn’t help but observe the chair, realizing that it symbolizes something greater.
I’m keeping that high chair for my grandchildren. Though it may be another decade before that happens, I don’t mind waiting. When my children come back with their little ones, filling my home once again with toys and laughter, I’ll cherish every moment. I now understand just how fleeting those early years were, and maybe I should have kept that crib too.
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In summary, the high chair remains a cherished relic of my parenting journey, a symbol of memories past and future hopes for family gatherings yet to come.