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.
And the corduroy sport jacket that Zion wore on his first birthday.
And this hand-knit pea pod sweater of baby Brave's.
And the gingham dress that Jubilee was wearing on the day that we met her, sweet little thing.
I tell ya, I may not be a baby person, but I am a my-baby person! Even though I am done, done, done like the last steak on the grill, and as ready to put this stage behind me as my parents were to see the end of Disco, there is a part of me that will
always ache to hold one of my babies, just one more time.
