Confession: I still store half my shit at my parent's house. The garage is overflowing with High School memorabilia, old journals and cardboard boxes full of origami-folded BFF notes that I never got around to tossing. And now, because our house is relatively small and considering how much baby shit a family accumulates/doesn't need at all but feels obligated to have because everyone says so needs, it probably doesn't come as a shock when I admit that I store all of the stuff Archer has outgrown at my parent's house. From the bassinette to the Baby Bjorn to the Infant car seat-- it's all here. At my parent's house. In my old bedroom closet. In my brother's old bedroom closet and my sister's old bedroom-closet. (Yes, I have monopolized the entire house with my baggage. I'm rotten.)
Today I surveyed the piles of infant-loot. A friend of mine just had a baby boy so it was time to organize and select hand-me-downs. I went through the boxes and bags of infant gear, teensy-tiny infant sleeping gowns, cute-lil baby jeans, doll-clothes-like onesies and those hand-made booties that once upon a time were so sweet and wonderful but a year later, have now become heart-breaking. I lost it when I opened Archer's "Infant to 6-month" hat bin and sorted through the dozens of pageboy caps and knit hats and beanies Archer grew out of WAAAAY too fast.
Where did it go? Oh GAWD! Where did it goooooooo...?
My brother found me in a heap of baby booties this afternoon, sobbing like an insane person.
"Um... Bec?"
"Just, Go, David. LEAVE ME BE! Just GO!"
So he left, muttering something along the lines of "What the fuck happened to her?"
For the record, I have no idea. My only solace is knowing that one day soon we might get pregnant again and I can recycle these cutie-batooties.
Frankly, I don't know how parents part with their children's clothes. I'll probably end up doing like my Ma-in-Law who kept all of my husband's baby-stuff. Old teddy bears, blankies, etc.
I mean... How many little boys get to rock Daddy's personalized sweaters circa back-in-the-day?
After an hour of caressing every breast-milk stained onesie and sorting through piles of Archer's infancy, I collected a pile of suitable hand-me-downs and dried my weepy eyes.
Then I came downstairs and begged my husband for another baby.
"You're insane."
I blame the teensy-tiny baby clothes and those stupid friggin hats and booties, man.
Like Kryptonite for hormonal, baby-obsessed bitches like me.
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