After mooching coffee, lunch and childcare off my parental units, I spent the later part of this afternoon sorting through clothing in the kids' rooms. How ridiculously emotional I become over this simple task never ceases to amaze me. I take a moment to consider every stitch of clothing: I recall where we acquired it, how many gremlins wore it (a few lucky items make it through all three, and they are cut from the fabric legends are made of), how cute it looked while being worn, and a whole bunch of other sappy crap.
With some items I become nearly rebotic as I place them in the 'donation' or 'put away for the next gremlin in line' pile, but those are few and far between. Most of the time my heart aches as I stuff a t-shirt into a bag destined for a thrift store, and even those going into the basement for a couple of years. Sometimes I get a little teary. Sometimes, I'm embarrassed to say, I give the sweater or pair of jeans a little kiss as a final farewell before it goes away.
There. I said it. I kiss it. Not in a sexual way, or that might go from laughable to creepy. However, there may be a whole new form of mental illness lurking inside yours truly. Who on earth has that much attachment to their children's clothing? Not normal people, that's for sure.
***
To understand where my sickness stems from, we must travel back through time - please wipe your feet on the time machine's 'welcome' mat - to 1998, in the late Cretaceous period. Other than the last few dinosaurs, you'll meet myself, Geekster and toddler Intrepid. (I can't meet myself because it disrupts the space-time continuum or something or other. That's what Spock says, anyway. Just tell her I said 'hi' and that she's going to get a little skinnier in the future. Just a little, not a lot. She still likes chocolate too much.)
Within our cave you'll also find an assortment of basal body temperature thermometers, charts and a well-worn copy of Taking Charge of Your Fertility. We're trying to get pregnant again, and things aren't going very well. In fact, things aren't going at all: I'm not ovulating and I'm having a period about every three months. Also, I was just diagnosed with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome, or PCOS. Not exactly a positive baby-making environment.
And I'm sad. Oh, so sad. For, while I'm over-the-moon-in-love with my beautiful/tantruming/otherwise pretty awesome Intrepid, I'm blue that we can't seem to give him a brother or sister. At twenty-three I should be a fountain of fertility. Instead, my body is failing me and I don't know why.
For four years I watch my son growing up without knowing whether or not we'll be able to have another. After the first couple of years, I start to give the clothing away instead of holding on to it, figuring there is no point in hording something for a baby that may never come. After suffering a miscarriage in 2001 I pick up the pace and get rid of virtually all our baby stuff; keeping what we have is becoming unhealthy for me and this obsession to have another child has to stop. I have reached the unfortunate conclusion that growing our family may not be part of the agenda.
Still, my heart hurts a little every time Intrepid outgrows his coat, his shoes, his shorts. Every time I pack something up in a box and give it to a mom with a younger boy than mine I remind myself that I'm not allowed to fall apart. That I have to remember how lucky I am to have one amazing kid to love.
And I am lucky. I just want to be luckier.
***
Alright. That's enough depression for one day. Let's put down the razor blades and head back to the time machine. I need a fresh coffee, anyway.
Obviously, that story has a happy ending. As we all know, The Maven ends up getting her heart's desire in the form of two fresh little gremlins to love and hold and file down their claws. She gets to dress them up in cute little outfits again and again and really doesn't mind shopping for new things. In fact, she loves shopping for kids' clothes and making her boys all adorable and stuff. Dressing them in the right attire is a great way of hiding their
Still, giving away clothing is not an easy task for me. I know it's lame and rather disturbing that I have to say goodbye to some fabric and dye made by a person in a third world sweat shop for a ridiculously unfair amount of money, but it is what it is. It's residue from a long time ago when I didn't know how full and amazing my life would become.
So, what brought me out of today's wardrobe heartache, you ask? Remembering that, just one month ago, my current toddler was lying in a hospital with machines hooked up to him and worried doctors and nurses hovering over him. And I, sitting by his bed, holding his limp little hand, was thinking very dark thoughts. Like whether or not I would be strong enough to pack up his stuff and donate it if we lost him to this unknown illness making him so very sick. That, my sheeple, is a thought I don't EVER want to think again, and that I hope you never have to, either. Like, ever.
When I look at how far we've come this month - the newest news being that Spawnling's eye is now starting to move properly again! - I realize that giving away clothes because my children are healthy and strong and growing is not a bad thing. It's a reason to celebrate.
And a reason to buy new clothes.
Which means I have to go to a mall.
And malls have places that sell coffee.
And I like coffee.
Life is good.
