Damn Consignment Sales

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I've eaten two cherry chocolate KIND bars in the last five minutes.  Emotional eating is an affliction of mine.

The problem is these damn consignment sales.  There's a big one twice a year 'round my parts, and every time I think, "I need to go through the Kid's stuff and sell the things we don't need."  And so I dutifully go through his closet, and--because that never takes long--I then think, "Oh, I should go through the baby-baby stuff in the basement, too--just real quick."

And that's where I fall to pieces.

There's a general sense of agreement in our house that we are not a "one and done" family, but the particulars are still only a distant, rough sketch.  If we end up with a little boy born in winter, I'll use every stitch of the Kid's clothes I've saved over again.  But a July girl?  I may as well just start over.

So what do I keep?  What do I sell or donate?

Some things are easy.  All our diapers go in the "keepers" box.  And certain toys and clothes--the Kid's "Sam" that he took everywhere for the first year, the clothes he came home from the birth center in--well, those are things I'll ask to be buried with.

And the blankets handmade by friends--again, a no-brainer.

But his swimsuit from last summer?  Do I keep that?

And his snowboots that he liked to tromp around half-naked in?  What about those?

It's like my own little Pandora's box--but instead of evils, it's full of that feeling you get when you find the baby booties you knitted on the day you found out you were pregnant and your heart lands on the floor with the combined happiness and wistfulness and hope and impatience and, yes, just a little sadness too.

And then you reach for a cherry chocolate KIND bar...and perhaps a glass of Pinot Grigio to wash it down.  Damn consignment sales.