Yesterday, for the second time in a week, my mom happened to call me on the phone while I sat, defeated, amongst piles of boxes.
Last week I decided the time had come to get rid of our labeled boxes--newborn, 3-6 months, 6-9 months, and so on--of baby boy clothes. Because:
1. We're not planning on any more baby boys. (Though, yes, we're still hoping for another girl.)
2. We need the closet space since for Christmas we gave Roscoe and Logan the promise of their own rooms, which means we need to dissolve my office and relocate all contents thereof.
So I pulled all the boxes out of Haley's closet, piled them all over her room, and then became stuck. I just literally didn't know how to begin.
I came back a few days later and became stuck again. What am I supposed to do? Get rid of all these stained, tattered little shirts with stripes or trucks or turtles? When I've spent fifteen years assembling this array of clothes in every size, for every occasion? When each little set of footie pajamas brings back vivid, visceral memories of the soft, fuzzy-headed boys who used to wear them? I'm supposed to just cast it all into the DI pile?
Seriously, I just couldn't do it.
And so there I sat, kind of embarrassed that my practical mother had caught me utterly paralyzed by what should be a simple organizing job.
And then, she gave me the brilliant suggestion: "Why don't you make them into a quilt?" Well, making a quilt is a bit beyond me. But Brenda, my mother-in-law, is a great quilter, and she's exactly the kind of person who would understand why I can't easily give up all the memories contained in those xerox boxes labeled "newborn" to "Boy 2."
Brenda agreed. Though she may regret it once she sees the pile of threadbare little tees I assembled. But they're precious to me, and I can't wait to sit under the quilt, thinking about the round little bellies that used to be under that fabric.