On Spring Cleaning...

As the winter gloom lifts, the Dogwoods have their fifteen minutes, and everyone’s reminded they actually have neighbors, a ritual of another kind begins: spring cleaning. For me, it’s a little like therapy – a clean sweep of all my bad decisions, overzealous purchases, and an altogether healthy exercise in letting go. This year I decided to get seriously ambitious and ask my husband to start bringing down boxes from the attic. Most of them were labeled “Jack,” who is now nearly six—clearly it was high time to weed through them, and yet I couldn’t help but marvel at how quickly the time had gone. Regardless, I was determined to keep my nostalgic inclinations low and the to-give-away pile high.

After the maelstrom settled, I was drawn to the veritable land of misfit baby gear that dominated the pile headed for the door. While by any standard it appeared as if our purging exercise had been a success, it had also come at a price—both literally and figuratively—as the impressive stack before me was a massive reminder of just how much of the boys’ college money I blew keeping the baby goods industry in business. As we walked down that proverbial lane, I enjoyed a few laughs and a very large slice of humble pie.

First there was the head positioner for the crib—two separate little cloth covered sticks that, as I turned them over in my hand, I was downright puzzled as to how I’d ever been convinced they would work. By the time Jack’s nap was over, I’d find one down by his feet and the other wedged between the bars and the bumper. Sometimes I’d even find him holding one above his head like a tiny Olympic torch.

Then there was the crib wedge –its intended purpose was to keep a baby’s head upright and therefore ease congestion. In theory, it was a good idea but in practical application, not so much. I’d place Jack at the top, he’d slide down, and we’d continue our little dance until I gave up altogether. On rare occasions I’d get him up there at just the right angle and he’d stay still long enough for me to believe that I’d finally cracked the code, only to commence his slow descent, centimeters at a time until he’d gathered enough momentum to sail down the rest of the way and slump like a potato bug at the bottom.

Of course, I can’t forget the deluxe piddle pad. As anyone who has ever cared for a little bundle of joy, urine and poop knows, if the baby’s going to blow, you’re going to need a lot more than a piddle pad – and there’s nothing deluxe about it. Another winner, the portable toilet seat for his post potty-training days. I think it’s safe to guess what else found its way down the pipes after that purchase. I even bought baby knee pads for crawlers —or should I say glorified wrist bands. His legs were so chubby, that when I put them on he would neither crawl nor attempt a move of any kind because I’m fairly certain the elastic had temporarily cut off his circulation. I’m pretty sure I was more concerned about his little skinned knees than he was anyway.

Moving on to the car seat neck roll – this product is a little like the story of “The Old Lady who Swallowed the Fly.” I got the car seat to save his life, I got the neck roll to save his neck, but it was bulky and awkward, so he started to cry, I bought the pacifier to stop the cry. Why did I buy? I don’t know why.

I must have been critically sleep-deprived when I bought the battery-operated aspirator that was supposed to suck out Jack’s nose slime while ridiculous songs played in an effort to drown out the scary noise and distract him. I’m pretty sure the scary noise was enough of a distraction and I’m now convinced its real intended purpose was to distract parents from the fact that they’d just gotten the money sucked out of their wallets for no reason. When I returned to the site for a refund I found the words, “Due to health reasons, we’re unable to return this product.” Smart.

Probably my all-time favorite, ne’er do well purchase was the wipe warmer. Everything about it drew you in. Regal name. Nice design. The concept pulled on all your “new mommy” heartstrings. So when I noticed that the bottom quarter of the wipe stack had turned a crispy brown I realized that something had gone very, very wrong. I consulted the manual for the first time. Apparently it was right there in the directions that I had to wash it out once a week to keep the wipes from drying out. Wait, so am I to understand that, in addition to wiping the various unsavory items I have to wipe multiple times a day, I now have to wipe my wipe warmer? Suddenly I felt compelled to furnish Jack with his first important life lesson. Life’s hard. And sometimes your buns are just going to get cold.

After purging the unnecessary baby gear and facing the fact that our little boy was growing up too fast, you’d think I’d been through enough for one weekend. But just as I dusted off the regret and began to settle into 2009 with a renewed spirit and unbearable feeling of lightness, my husband called to me from upstairs. “Hey, hon, why don’t we start on YOUR closet?” Me, with panic setting in, but trying to sound as nonchalant as possible, “No, no – nothing in there we need to worry about, I clean it out all the time.” My husband, “Yea, but there are all these clothes with the tags still on that you’ve never worn.” That was it. I sprinted up the stairs and just as I rounded the corner to our bedroom, I saw him holding one of my most beloved items, a sassy red backless dress in my goal size six. A little number I couldn’t pass up at Banana Republic’s 2007 post-holiday blowout. Still panting, I snatched it from his hand and shoved it clumsily back into a cluster of its counterparts – all with their own personal bargain and delusional story to tell. One therapy session at a time, please.