It’s one of the tasks I loathe: the changing of the clothes.
They call to me for weeks, as I slowly notice (but don’t acknowledge) the shortening hems, the tightening waistlines, and the wrists sticking out of sleeves. I kid myself into thinking that I’m making note of what still fits and what doesn’t, but truth be told, I despise this task. It requires the patience to pack up the old and pull out the new. It demands a high level of enthusiasm to coerce either child to come try on new pants. Because Murphy’s Law states that if I pack up the old without trying on the new, we’ll end up with pants that don’t stay up, even though the last size have turned into boy capris. And then it requires convincing my husband the heaviest bin in the world needs to be carried up into the attic to await its recall in 2 years. The clothes sit, or are worn rather, day in and day out. Until finally I cave and begin the arduous task, inwardly chiding myself for dodging it for so long. And then, sweet relief, I can soak in the clean rooms and relish the display of new clothes that parade on little bodies throughout the week. You’d think it would inspire me to stay on top of this task. It’s an enticing thought. And yet, let’s be honest, I already know... I won’t.
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AuthorHeidi. Archives
March 2022
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