Next weekend we are having a tag sale. Under normal circumstances, nostalgia (which is very strong with me) would win out and we would not be selling our baby things or toddler clothes. However, these are not normal circumstances. In fact, none of my circumstances are "normal," now that I think about it, but back to the point. Because the movers this fall will charge us by the square meter, we don't want to move anything we won't use again.
That's right, we won't use our baby things or toddler clothes again. Please pass the tissues, because I am over here burying my face in tiny hooded sweatshirts and stained receiving blankets, breathing in the faint scents of diaper rash cream and pureed squash. OK, so maybe the scents are all in my head, but that doesn't mean they aren't real. The pain of parting with this stuff is real, I can tell you that. As real as the Velcro on my Eagle Creek purse that I've been using since college, and the tearing sound is just as loud.
There are, of course, a few things I will never part with. What kind of mother would I be if there weren't? Like my favorite flannel shirt of Bright's when he was a toddler.