When it comes to clothing consumption, I have always had a hearty appetite.
Before I hit the wise old age of 25 and came to the sad realization that “need” and “want” were not synonyms, I was sure that the same philosophy applied to clothes as applies to good food, good wine, and good friends: The more the merrier.
At one point a couple of years back, my closet had gotten so merry that I don’t even think Santa Claus on Christmas morning would have approved. (Mrs. Claus? Maybe.) So I went on a shopping diet. I banned myself from every store that sold anything made of cotton or polyester or any other remotely soft material. (You’d be surprised how stylish a bed sheet can be.)
A drastic measure, say you? Desperate times call for desperate measures, say I. It was tough at first, but once the sweating, shaking and hallucinations subsided, it was all duck soup from there.
That is, until I got married.
My husband was less impressed that I HADN’T had to ask our neighbor down the hall if we could borrow some of his closet space and more concerned that my side of our walk-in closet was completely full and beginning to take over his side. (I couldn’t help myself; it looked so sad and barren.) He laid down the law, and my withdrawals began. Within days, my wardrobe was significantly smaller.
Now that I am expecting, I am expecting—no pun intended—for the cycle to begin again.
Although I have managed to stay out of the baby clothes’ section, my friends and family have not had such stellar self-control. Thanks to their generosity, I have cornered the market on onesies, sleepers, shirts, pants, jackets, baby booties, hats and all manner of pint-sized clothing. If Baby Jacob comes out the normal way, with only one body, one head and two feet, I estimate that it will take him around 14 years to wear each article of clothing—once.
Because many of Jacob’s clothes are hand-me-downs, my big to-do this week was to get all of his clothes laundered. With clothing ranging in size from newborn to 3T, our washer and dryer have been working overtime. After each cycle, the towering mounds grow and so does my conviction that no baby in the world, especially a BOY baby needs this many clothes.
You know the old country song that goes “Too much fun what's that mean / It's like too much money there's no such thing”? Yeah, well, this is nothing like that. There is definitely such a thing as too many baby clothes. In fact, Tom remarked the other day that we could simply toss the baby’s clothes after they’re soiled rather than washing them. It was a moment of sheer genius—wasteful sheer genius but genius nonetheless.
Despite the obvious brilliance of his plan, I am too practical to ever follow-through. Instead, I decided that donating some of the clothes would be a better plan. Sounds simple enough, right? Wrong. Every time I try to separate out items to donate, I become inordinately sentimental over the fact that I’ll never see THAT pastel-colored onesie and animal-footed sleeper again. (Never mind that I have ten others that are identical.)
To give you an analogy, I feel like a mother bear guarding her cub, except there is no cub yet, so essentially I am standing jealous watch over a pile of fur. Sounds a little crazy, doesn’t it? I think so, but at least for now I can blame it on the pregnancy hormones. And, with only seven more weeks to go, you better know I’m going to take advantage of that excuse while I can.