I am a pack rat. I find it hard to throw things away, wondering whether I’ll need them in the future. That old, half-used, work notebook will come in handy someday, right? After all, there will be a day when I’ll need paper and it will be my savior, right?
That old, half-used bottle of straightening shampoo has a shelf life of forever, right? Keeping my old laptop from six years ago will make sense someday, right? What if we lose our back-up, hard drives and I need to re-download the pictures, right? Those old, worn-out, platform sandals will come back in style someday, right? Some wunderkind cobbler will fix them up, shiny and like new, right?
When we moved, I did the best I could to discard of most of my unnecessary goods for Hubs’ sake. He hates the clutter effect that my pack rat mentality chooses to maintain. It has a mind of it’s own. Of course, we negotiated, so we still have a few boxes that have never been opened. Mind you, we’ve lived here for three years.
Well, I believe I’m settling into the hoarder end of the spectrum with all of the baby stuff. In my mind, the baby shop is closed. In my heart, it’s just closed for renovations. There’s still a chance that I might have another baby. It’s a .0001 percent chance, but it still exists.
We can only park one car in our garage because I have kept all of Babyface’s stuff, toys, books, and clothes. I’ve even kept my extensive, maternity wardrobe. I was working when I was pregnant, so I bought nicer clothes back then. My pregnancy couture was definitely classier, than my SAHM couture. Some of those items still even have the price tags on them.
I’ve kept every damn thing. My sister gave me a bunch of hand-me-down items that we never used, that I’ve even kept. If I didn’t use them for the first baby, why do I think I’ll use them for the .0001 percent baby in my dreams? Even I don’t make sense to me. The baby-stuff hoarder in me has taken over.
There are so many children who could really use this stuff, but it’s all tied to my heart with a big, long band of messy twine (Rochester, eat your heart out. This is about material love). Cut it and my heart might stop from a lack of hope or possibility. .0001 percent of hope and possibility, but it still exists, regardless.
Recently, I’ve come to terms with my baby-stuff, hoarder ways. All of the boxes are about to topple over onto my car. My car is my other baby. I’m left with a decision that feels equivalent to Sophie’s Choice.
Do I face reality and let the baby stuff go? When will I be ready to shift .0001 percent to zero percent? Will menopause be the only end? Wait, after that, what about all of the babies that will need to be adopted? Will I see or meet one someday and wish I had stayed a baby-stuff hoarder?
Regardless, Hubs is growing Grinch green from the wait. Hubs is growing Grinch green not being able to park his car in the garage. I often search for the phone number for the Salvation Army. I just can’t get myself to dial the numbers. Pretty soon, we’ll have to rent out storage space and pay someone for me to be a baby-stuff hoarder.