When we moved to the house we currently live in I was 8 months pregnant with my son. Moving from the old house was hectic and tiring. I went through as much crap as I could and tossed it and then packed away my sentiments.
Lots of sentiments.
My memories from grammar school and high school, photo albums, Cabbage Patch Dolls, collectible Barbie Dolls, baseball cards, rock concert memorabilia, my multiple dogs' ashes and collars, and my precious knick knacks.
I'm not good with parting ways with stuff. I have lots of stuff.
All of my stuff was put in a very large pile in the back of the garage and there it sat.
For almost two years.
Don't judge. I now have a toddler. Ain't nobody got time for stuff.
When I announced I wanted to host my son's second birthday party at our house, my partner decided it was time to do something with the stuff. So, we purchased shelves and rearranged the stuff onto shelves.
The stuff is still there. Just prettier.
But now, there's more stuff. His stuff.
My son's stuff. Stuff I can't dare bring myself to part with.
Unlike a box of old CD's or rock concert memorabilia, his stuff rocks me to my core.
Totes and totes of clothes, his high chair, baby play mats, bouncies, and toys. But mostly his clothes.
Giving away his stuff, his clothes, gives finality to our quest to have another child. Are we really done? Is he the first and the last child we will have? Are we giving up? To me it signifies letting go.
Letting go of the beautiful little baby I held in my arms just two short years ago. Letting go of the baby that could be.
Granted, it could be a girl.
And that's where the six other totes of girl's clothes comes in. My sister's totes. From her first born. Her stuff. Stuff she can't let go either.
Stuff makes life.
Stuff is love.
It's not just stuff.
Do you have too much stuff?
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