Decluttering

Last weekend I passed along our entire stash of cloth diapers to Kyanne’s sister and her husband, who are expecting their first baby in a few months. Twenty pocket diapers plus inserts, plus a handful of Thirsties covers in case they want to try prefolds too (we gave away our prefolds to another friend several months ago). I threw in several wet bags, a couple of boppy covers, an extra boppy, and our pack ’n play, since my baby is four years old and I am just not terribly motivated to sell all of these things online or whatever.

It is bittersweet. I remember researching cloth diapers for months before I actually gave birth. I remember the softness of the fleece linings the first time I rubbed them against my cheek. I loved the whole process of preparing them, washing them and organizing them in drawers in the baby’s room. I loved pinning them to the clothesline in the backyard, letting them dry in the summer heat, the sun bleaching them clean -- those diapers were pooped in every day for two years, and they’re pretty much spotless.

At the same time, I love decluttering. It’s not always easy to get rid of things, but in the end, things are just things. (I remember going through boxes and boxes of Suzannah’s baby clothes when Isaac was only a month old. I’d stored them away in her closet but decided to save only a few special things and give the rest away to a single mother who needed a little help, and after all, our second child was a boy. And also, memories turn into clutter when they’re merely boxes on closet shelves. I’ve never regretted getting rid of any of it.) Isaac’s diapers have been stashed neatly in his room for a long time now. I loved them because I loved his babyhood, so much. But he’s growing into this wonderful boy, this kid who sleeps with both a stuffed bunny and a light saber, who wears his sister’s old purple bike helmet and loves having his fingernails painted, who wants to wear his Iron Man costume while he eats dinner and loves his “Inja Turtles” and space station. He has skinny legs and knobby knees and bony ankles and gives huge, fierce hugs and sloppy kisses.

(Lately he thinks it’s hilarious, when I’m tucking him into bed, to wrap his arms tightly around my neck and say, “You’re just gonna sleep with me.” I make a show of falling asleep against him, and for a moment I listen to the sweet sound of his breathing, feel the rise and fall of his chest. Then he screams in my ear. I am supposed to jerk upright and shriek with surprise. He laughs and laughs.)

He can get himself dressed. He can pick his own clothes -- and throw a pretty impressive tantrum when his Inja Turtle t-shirt is in the wash because, no, he may not wear it every single day. Probably I should go right back to Target and buy five more; all our ears will thank me.

He does not need those diapers any longer. And without his formerly chubby thighs with those delicious rolls, without that big squishy belly (although he does still have a delightfully round tummy), without that big padded butt I used to love to pat while I rocked my son in the dark before I put him down, they’re really just -- diapers. It’s really just stuff.

(But I admit I can’t quite manage to give up my Ergo. Yet. It’s the one thing. I wore my son in that every single day for well over a year -- well into his toddlerhood. He napped on my chest while I watched his sister play, while we took walks, while I cleaned the house. When we road-tripped for two weeks, to Montana and Minnesota, we didn’t even pack a stroller; it was just so much easier to wear him everywhere, and it saved so much space in the car. Somehow, that Ergo is the quintessential symbol of Isaac’s babyhood.)

I do love the extra space, and all week I’ve been planning to rearrange Isaac’s room. Tomorrow morning I plan to get up, pour myself a cup of coffee, and move some things around. Isaac isn’t a baby anymore, and while I deeply loved every moment of his babyhood, I can’t get enough of the goofy, affectionate little boy he is. Last Saturday, as soon as I waved goodbye to Kyanne and her sister and brother-in-law, I turned around and saw a project. Matt convinced me to wait until this weekend -- my plan involves touch-up paint and moving some tightly-secured shelves -- but I’m ready.

And anyway, Lent is the season for letting go. It seems appropriate.