Spring in the Midwest is the time of year when we all come tumbling out of our houses and into the parkways like puppies, larva-like and milky-white from months of not seeing the sun. We’re always overly chatty in a serial killer way with our neighbors because it’s literally been months of not seeing them, and there’s always a sort of camaraderie of “yeah, we survived another one.”
We all seem to underestimate how hard the deep freeze of the winters are on our psyche, if not our pasty white skin. Because no sooner does the thermometer needle hover near 40 degrees than we’re all pulling out the barbecue grills and inviting everyone over for a Sausage (bacon?) Party.
We’re all also in the process of cleaning out our houses. St. Charles (ILLINOIS, people) runs a yearly junk day where the city comes around and picks up all your junk for free. The week before, though, everyone sets out their stuff and it’s sort of a recycling frenzy. Pretty much nothing makes it to the actual dump, which, HELLO, I’M BEING GREEN HERE.
In the process of getting the stuff ready for junk day, I finally tackled the project I’ve been putting off: Baby Stuff.
Since Amelia was born, I’ve just sort of stuffed all of her outgrown clothes into bins and thrown them in her closet (with all of Alex’s outgrown clothes) and called it a day. I’ve not been ready psychologically to deal with it, so, I shoved it back into the closet.
She’s our last baby, as made by the snipping of The Daver’s vas deferens this Thursday (Happy Tax Day, Daver!) and honestly, I’m good with that. My body can physically not handle another baby. I don’t want another baby. Shit, I have an 8-year old, a 3-year old and a 1-year old. Three is a motherfucking LOT of kids, Pranksters.
But it’s all those teeny-tiny clothes that break me up. I remember my babies in them when they were all tiny and new and squirmy and sweet (and not-so-sweet) smelling. They’re just so small and darling and my children are now getting so big and that’s wonderful but wow, those clothes, they flay me. They gut me.
It was time.
And really, it wasn’t as hard as I’d thought. I’ve still got my tenterhooks in the girl clothes and I gave the boy clothes to my nephew Cameron. How cool is it that I can SEE my clothes worn by my only nephew? (answer: full of fucking awesome!)
That goes to show that even Aunt Becky accepts that it’s time for a new era in Casa de la Sausage.
The era of watching OTHER people get fat, saggy asses and leaky breasticles while they cook their crotch parasites. The era of listening to OTHER people bemoan lack of sleep and all-nighters with chubby people who poo their pants. The era of listening to OTHER people discover why Dr. Sears is the fucking DEVIL.
Because as sad as I was to see those baby clothes go, I know I don’t want to push something from my delicate girl bits to put in those clothes. I’m done with that. My crotch is my own now. AUNT BECKY IS TAKING BACK THE CROTCH (and the rest of her body).
And the best part about it is, The Daver can no longer use the “it’s uter-US, Becky, not Uter-YOU” line on me anymore.
I am at Toy With Me, where I wrote a letter to my younger self. READ IT.
If you want to meet Mimi (and The Daver and Your Aunt Becky) come walk with us for the March for Babies! You know you want to.