Hi N.,
I'm so glad I'm not the only one! I still have my kids' old carseat in the garage. I still use a booster for the youngest, but the one they used as babies isn't leaving my sight for a while. My youngest just started school this year -- she's five. I know exactly what you mean, and you're not the only one. (We're overseas right now, and children start full-day primary school [like first grade] as soon as they turn five. It turned out to be far harder on me that it was on her!)
I kept our carseat. I keep certain little outfits, locks of hair -- but the carseat, cumbersome as it is, remains the mother of all reminders. It sits beside the bikes under the workbench grimacing at my poor husband, "I'm huge and I'm wasting space and you can't touch me!"
But when I walk out there, I see each of my babies, tiny, nestled against the fabric when it was still new. I remember sitting behind the wheel, my wrist draped over the edge of that carseat, tiny fingers wrapped around my pinky. I remember all the primping and preparing I did to make sure each trip was comfortable for my wet-noodle newborns. I remember the smell of their hair and the sound of that airy laughter only a baby can make.
And then they grew, one by one. And soon the spot worn thin by little downy scalps was hidden behind busy overalls until each baby was big enough for the toddler carseat. I lent that one to a friend. And then I went inside and cried. It's just a thing, but it's a thing that held my baby when I could not, it kept him safe and close to me and when I look at it I don't see a thing, I see a thousand miles of our life.
It's okay that they grow up; it's good and I'm relieved, in a way, that we made it this far unscathed. But... it's just that... I know that every ounce they gain, every inch they grow increases that invisible distance between us. I wouldn't have it any other way. And yet... it's melancholy triumph, isn't it.
It's often said that things don't matter, they're just things. But they're more than that. They are reminders. They are triggers. They brush across our line of vision and spawn an avalanche of sights and scents and sounds -- they bring to life the moment that was lost. I don't think you're silly at all. I think you are loving and honest. And I'm glad that there's a place like this to tell each other that we are never alone, even if the car seems emptier for that little space where the carseat used to be.
:-)