Stuff

My first garage sale is this weekend. The amount of stuff we have accumulated in this house astounds me. And I'm not even a shopper. These are things we deemed "necessary" or something close to necessary to function in life. Insane.

So as I've been sifting through what amounts to almost another entire house in our basement, I've come across all kinds of items. They really are just things, and I rarely miss material items once I get rid of them. I have discovered a bit of a purpose to all this "stuff," though: It jogs the memories.

Without the junk, I wouldn't have thought of all the things I've thought of in the past week, like events of my life flashing before me. I still have -- for the moment, anyway -- some of my old cassette tapes, many from the 80s. It amazed me how just seeing the name of one singer or song could bring to mind old friends and complete scenes and events. Strangely, the same thing occurred with my old purses. I recalled carrying that purse to such-and-such event when such-and-so happened.

I'm selling all the little-baby toys, gadgets (speaking of stuff that wasn't really "necessary" -- all the baby crap astounds me) and baby clothes, since we don't plan on more kids. All except The Orange Crocs and a few other little items, which I'm keeping for posterity. Having been at home with my girls more than I have worked full time since they were born, I feel like I remember vividly all the tidbits from their babyhoods. Of course, that's through a sleep-deprived filter and covering almost four years.

So last night, I was folding baby sleepers and nighties, and I was transported by a total recall of memories from Jellybean's infancy. L usually had post-bath duty in those days because it gave him a special time with her since I was nursing. I remembered how he would always talk to Jellybean in the sweetest way. He told her every night what animal or design was on her pajamas, and he talked to her about how pretty she was and how much he loved her. I was bursting with warm and fuzzy after remembering all this detail last night, and I couldn't wait to tell L about it. His response? "I don't remember that at all." He really didn't, he had erased it all from his mind. I was galled. How dare he forget anything about our babies?

That is why moms are supposed to be the keepers of all childhood stories. Dads are supposed to choose three stories from their kid's childhood -- preferably involving bodily fluids and/or embarrassing moments -- and repeat those same stories for the rest of their life to whomever will listen. I forgive L for his forgetfulness. And I'll allow him to choose his own three stories.