This post's title might lead you to believe that it's about catharsis. Sorry. This post is actually about cleaning closets. Who says I'm not the mayor of Thrillsville?
This morning I had to evict a bunch of the Girl's too-small clothes from her closet. Because I have many generous people in my life, she's got a wardrobe that would rival Liberace's. In volume, people, not in style. I don't dress my baby like a Vegas performer. Sequins, ostrich feathers, and rhinestones, in my humble opinion, don't belong on an infant. Lord help you if you think they do.
Anyway, the whole experience is wildly bittersweet. I smile at all of the cute, but I know that she'll never wear it again, that she'll never be this small again, and that time is flowing by too rapidly for me to savor her cherubic glory. So I blink back the bitter, and I think of the sweet: as she grows she'll learn to walk, talk, giggle, sing, clap, hug, kiss, and dance.
The Boy has mastered all of those skills and then some. Now if we could just get him interested in the potty...
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