Something about our annual garage sale transforms me from "mild-mannered-I didn't even notice that four-foot pile of toys in the den mom" to "if it's not nailed to the floor it must go wild woman." This odd pre-sale ritual does not exclude my own closet, either. This year, though, my closet cleaning did lead to a bit of self-discovery.
Some of my discoveries were the rather mundane, "Gee, I REALLY love cardigans." Perhaps, it's their versatility. Short-sleeved, mid-sleeved, long-sleeved, they finish any outfit with grace, but who needs over-20? Yes, there are over 20 because when I stopped counting at 20 there were more still hanging in the closet. Ahh, but who doesn't love a cardigan? There's something very neighborly about them.
I also have some odd, "maybe it's time to call the producers of Hoarders" obsession with 3/4 length sleeve boat neck t-shirts. I think I figured this one out, though. I don't have to worry about frightening anyone when I bend over to pick up my toddler at the library when he says, "Hold you, mama." Everything is nicely covered, and they are quite flattering. They, like cardigans, tend to be my fashion security blanket.
As I dig deeper into my closet, I also began to dig a little deeper into my personality. For instance, I have a shirt I bought early in my relationship with my husband. I don't wear it anymore, but each time its number is called for inspection on closet-cleaning day, I can't seem to toss it in the garage sale pile. Is it an odd memento of a younger, freer couple who stood at the threshold of the unknown, excited about our future together? This time, I pull it carefully off the hanger, try it on, realize I'll never be able to wear it again, and think, "It's only a shirt." As it lands on the ever-growing pile of clothing, I don't feel the usual tinge of guilt. After all, my son just kicked his big sister, so that takes away a bit from the reverie.
After I get A and C a snack and allow them to play in the pile of discards, I return to my trip down memory lane and find a few items I've had since high school. Upon discovering these, I briefly think about scheduling an appointment with a counselor. Surely there is some deep meaning here. But, I can still wear them, or at least I will be able to after I lose five pounds. I realize, though, that my weight is just about the same as it was in high school. Hmm...could it be that no matter how much weight I lose, or how many miles I run, that the reality is giving birth to two amazing children has changed my body, and it will never be the same as it was in high school? That, somehow my torso is even longer than it was pre-pregnancy, and that many shirts couldn't have just shrunk in the wash. Would I want my body to be the same, though? I am stronger and fitter than I ever was then, so I again contemplate letting go....of everything except.....oh, after all, it's just clothes....and I still have to decide how many red cardigans I really need.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Monday, March 14, 2011
The Pants Wars
"Mommy, C's not wearing pants." This has become less of a verse and more of a chorus in our house lately, a chorus that repeats more often than that Justin Bieber one you can't seem to get out of your head.
I'm not quite sure when my son's deep disapproval of diapers and denim began. Perhaps it was the first time he realized that a buff bum was immediate removal from the crib at nap time by a panicked mommy, who had visions of potty and even, poop, being tossed about the room. Not that I'm squeamish, but it's tough enough to keep just a "neat" home with two five-and-under sweethearts without the added help of nap time antics. Maybe he just likes the free feeling of not having elastic constrict his cute toddler tummy. Whatever the reason, C does not like to wear pants, or shorts, or pajamas, or anything really.
And if chasing my son throught the living room with a pair of pants in hand, trying to re-diaper him before he can leave anymore gifts on the floor isn't bad enough at home, now the ritual has become public. While shopping with my sweet baby boy one morning, I am looking through dresses when I hear someone politely say, "Ma'am, he's taken off his pants." I look down in the buggy just in time to see C unstrapping his diaper. I smile sheepishly, mumble, "thank you," then redress my son. "You must wear pants in public, buddy."
"Why, mommy?"
"Because."
That's the best I can do at the moment. I've since come up with elaborate explanations as to why we need pants from because mommy says you must to we've worn pants since the fall of man in the Garden, Little Buddy. Apparently none of these are good enough for my sweet boy because when he woke just this morning, his sister ran in his room at the first sound of his little voice and sang the chorus that has grown so familiar in our home, "Mommy, C's not wearing any pants!"
I'm not quite sure when my son's deep disapproval of diapers and denim began. Perhaps it was the first time he realized that a buff bum was immediate removal from the crib at nap time by a panicked mommy, who had visions of potty and even, poop, being tossed about the room. Not that I'm squeamish, but it's tough enough to keep just a "neat" home with two five-and-under sweethearts without the added help of nap time antics. Maybe he just likes the free feeling of not having elastic constrict his cute toddler tummy. Whatever the reason, C does not like to wear pants, or shorts, or pajamas, or anything really.
And if chasing my son throught the living room with a pair of pants in hand, trying to re-diaper him before he can leave anymore gifts on the floor isn't bad enough at home, now the ritual has become public. While shopping with my sweet baby boy one morning, I am looking through dresses when I hear someone politely say, "Ma'am, he's taken off his pants." I look down in the buggy just in time to see C unstrapping his diaper. I smile sheepishly, mumble, "thank you," then redress my son. "You must wear pants in public, buddy."
"Why, mommy?"
"Because."
That's the best I can do at the moment. I've since come up with elaborate explanations as to why we need pants from because mommy says you must to we've worn pants since the fall of man in the Garden, Little Buddy. Apparently none of these are good enough for my sweet boy because when he woke just this morning, his sister ran in his room at the first sound of his little voice and sang the chorus that has grown so familiar in our home, "Mommy, C's not wearing any pants!"
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