The lady from Purple Hearts Veterans (organization that collects used clothes, household items, etc. for resale) called last week and wanted to know if I had any donations. Throughout the year, I donate all outgrown clothes from the boys. This process is always grueling. Not because I'm hauling Hefty bags down a flight of stairs repeatedly, but because I'm bidding farewell to clothes I've seen all 3 of my boys grow up in.
Now to be fair, it's usually only the tops that bring me to a melancholy state. None of my kids ever share pants. Ironically, I thought I'd hit the frugal lady jackpot in having all boys and thus securing three times the usage out of any item. God most certainly has a sense of humor as he granted me one "Husky," one "Regular," and one "Slim" in each pant size. The best laid plans....
My wonderful 65 year old mom usually comes over and shuffles everybody's dressers to meet the next size and season. For this alone, I have promised to never put her in a home. She sits there, squinting at faded tags trying to decipher sizes while cross-referencing against each boy's new size.
After she's done, I'm left with memories of my babies. The orange jumper that Jack learned to walk in. The Handy Manny sweatshirt that Dan wore to his first day of school. Every season we go through this, and each time I am left to mourn the end of my baby years.
If it wasn't for the Purple Hearts' call and my mom's seasonal help, I most certainly would be a hoarder. I have visions of being surrounded by infant overalls and duckie hats. Yet the veterans call, my mom comes over, and there we be no flattened cats found in heaps.
Despite this, I have my own secret stash of contraband. In the back of my closet, under an old comforter, I have kept exactly 4 pairs of maternity shorts. Oh, and 3 maternity tops. Oh, and there might be some maternity jeans. Oh! And I can't forget the maternity tanks. Those suckers are like a little bit of heaven on fat days. I don't think I have a problem. Now where's that cat?