In two weeks, I have purged about four trash bags worth of baby clothes, gear, maternity clothes and diapers. The benefit of not having another child, despite all questions about whether we’ll try for a girl or remarks from my in-laws that I’M GLOWING, is that I don’t need to hold onto any newborn socks, receiving blankets, wipe warmers, onesies, 4 oz bottles. And since I’m NOT PREGNANT (cc: IN-LAWS), I don’t need to keep maternity pants with a huge elastic swath where the zipper should be, even if it’s tempting to keep that around for trips to the Chinese buffet.
Instead of holding onto these clothes for consignment or until someone I knew became pregnant and was having a boy and was okay with onesies that scream “BASEBALL” and “I LOVE DADDY,” I offered them up online, set them outside my door and by the end of the weekend, I had made a clearing.
It feels amazing to just get rid of things, to slice off the chains I had to clothing I was convinced I’d need for future babies or pregnancies since that is not happening, unless it’s with Clive Owen. I did save all the skinny jeans I had forgotten about, ones I spent $$$ on in my younger, single digit size days.
I can’t wait to fit into those again. It’s what keeps my diet going, the idea of the tag reading “S” for small and not “S” for STRATOSPHERE because my butt needs more room than the earth can provide.
Soon, soon I will be able to wear them comfortably. They will slide onto my body easily. I will not have to lie on my back, wiggling on my bed with a pair of pliers on the zipper, grunting at my body, repeating a two-word litany: “Come on, come on, come on!”