"Project Purge" - Completed (well, almost)

I just finished tying up the last bag of my sweet baby girl's clothes.

I wanted to write down my thoughts as they're still fresh in my mind, and in my heart. So how did I fare? Well, obviously, I did it ... I never stopped breathing, I never broke out in hives, I never needed any medication or (serious) counseling of any sort. It went quite smoothly.

Today, however, was the hardest day as I tackled the final bins, ranging from newborn to 9 months -- the cute, cuddly, soft, tiny little outfits that wrapped up the first days, weeks, and months of my babies' lives in this world, clothes that were destined to produce an emotional reaction. I went through Aidan's bins first, and what I found to be interesting is that the 3m - 6m bin was by far the most difficult of all. I had been doing very well up to that point, picking out one special item from each bin -- shirts that he wore for each portrait (a tradition of ours, having a "formal" portrait taken around each birthday), his first Halloween costume, and so on. Even the newborn bin wasn't that emotionally draining, perhaps because the majority of items were sleepers or sacks, as well as given the fact that I don't remember much of those early months due to severe sleep deprivation combined with a total state of cluelessness. Those 0-3m items represented sheer survival for me, fairly easy to pack up. But my boy came to life at the 3m-6m range, and those clothes were tough to sort through. Before I knew it, my "keep" pile was beginning to overtake the too-slowly-filling garbage bag. That had to be remedied. I did a second sort-through, even harder than the first, for every item had a beautiful memory attached to it -- an outfit that defied sweetness; tiny shirts and shorts worn on his first vacation to the shore; a teeny pair of jeans; his first "this" and his first "that." I did it, though -- I narrowed it down. In the end, I did end up saving a littlemore than I anticipated but that's OK. There's room.

I'm not sure why I left Grace's clothes for last. I suppose I thought hers would be easier, since it wasn't too long ago that she wore them. I was wrong. Oh, so wrong ... I think what made her clothes harder to part with was because I actually remember her babyhood ... and I loved it. I adored her from Day One -- not to say I didn't love my boy, but it was just a different situation. He was my first, I was scared and clueless, he never ever slept. But Grace was a sweet dream, with tiny outfits to match. I could picture her in every single outfit, each outdoing the other in emotional importance -- a velvety-soft sleeper with pink rosebuds; a yellow jumper worn on her first outing in Skippack's antique district; little summery pink one-piece rompers ... the list is endless. It was very, very hard selecting the "keepers," but somehow I got through it. And it made me miss her.

So the bags are all tied, awaiting their destination later this week. I can't go back. It's a good thing, I know. Interestingly, no tear was shed -- but that is due largely in part by the fact that I am operating at the brink of sheer exhaustion and have no energy for tears. Also, my dad and my uncle were in my apartment fixing various things pertaining to sinks and tubs, and the kids were fighting horrifically ... all taking away from an emotional scene. That's OK -- it was probably a blessing in disguise anyway.

Even though I kept my emotions in check -- at least outwardly -- I don't feel the elation I thought I would, at climbing my own personal Everest. I tackled something huge; I scaled an emotional mountain. I should feel good about myself -- jubilant, even. But I don't. I feel a kind of heavy emptiness, a sadness. It made me feel old, somehow. I guess this is how someone might feel when they're turning 50, or some other milestone age, realizing they're on a different leg of their journey now. I'm not middle-aged, of course, but it's a similar feeling. Yet looking back, I see that I often feel this way as I leave one season of life for another -- a bit of grieving before embracing: leaving home for college; leaving college for the "real world;" and especially leaving the season of being half of a young couple to being a mother. And now I am no longer, nor ever will be, a mother of babies. It's a tough thing to let go.

At least for now. The next season is already here. And I do love it.