The End Of An Era

While my children may be hoarders, I delight just a little too much in purging my house. It’s practically orgasmic, as I watch the bagloads of crap I’ve kept around get sent to the Salvation Army, knowing they’re going somewhere–presumably a good home–yet not really caring where they end up. See, it’s not my problem anymore. They could be giving my perfectly good crap to baby snatchers and I still wouldn’t care.

Not. My. Problem.

Which is why this is all sort of… shocking to me.

See, I’ve spent the last couple of months purging the crap out of my house. My youngest is almost three, my eldest is almost ten, and there is no reason I need one of those Baby Saucer things or an ickle baby car seat. These kids grow out of clothes so quickly I wonder why I bother buying them anything their size at all–like I should just buy them all four sizes too big clothes and within a couple weeks, they’d fit perfectly.

And while I’ve been particularly good at being all, “YOU’RE FIRED” to most of this baby stuff, it’s been sitting in my garage. Waiting. For what? I don’t know.

I just can’t seem to part with some of the stuff I was salivating to get out of my house. It’s dumb, I know, to be all nostalgic over that stuff. My middle son’s high chair. My daughter’s bouncy seat. I know it’s just stuff–stuff that should be given away so that someone else can use it. My kids are certainly not going to have any need for a wind-up baby swing or a Moses Basket.

But it sits there, day in and day out, tragically staring at me, as I take out the trash or putter around, like the world’s saddest collection of baby gear. No longer wanted or needed, just waiting for a new home.

So why can’t I get over myself and get rid of it? Simply put, I don’t fucking know. It seems so final, so END OF DAYS for me to dump the stuff off on someone else. I know I’m not having more babies and I love my children as they are dearly.

Maybe I’m just mourning the simplicity of those baby days.

*shrugs*

Or maybe I’m just lazy.