My sister and I have alternated being pregnant for the past 4 years. Yippee it’s her turn at the moment, so she’s currently accommodating the dreaded black bin bags of maternity clothes at her house.
Now storage is a bit of an issue in most families’ homes. So as soon as a garment becomes even the whisper of a bit clingy on S1, I’m bagging it up in eager anticipation of passing it back for my sister’s impending progeny. Plus I wouldn’t want the poor thing to be uncomfortable; she sports the plumpest little thighs.
Only my sister is refusing to accept these returns. It gets worse – every time I see her she presents me with a bag of clothes my niece has now outgrown, yet refuses to accept my bagged items in exchange, even the incomplete first set of B1’s briefs, which I offer on a ‘poo-free guarantee’.*
My heart sank this morning when I spotted the green ‘bag for life’ (Asda wasn’t lying) on big sis’s arrival, as delightful as its contents would prove. S1’s bedroom is currently the isolation chamber for this multiplying wardrobe, which admittedly isn’t too much of a problem at the moment, as she refuses to sleep anywhere other than our bed, with me in it**. That’s not to say the monstrous sight of these clothes on a daily basis has no impact on my eudaimonia, if I could be so bold as to use the term.
The Hubster will go frozen bananas when he finds out I’ve accepted another bag and failed to palm back even one modest batch. I will appease him with an Asahi (should have splashed out on the much-coveted Brewdog crate after all) and meatball supper, whilst calling for his patience. Later, as he takes a welcome swig of lager, seductively I whisper in his ear the trump of all trumps, “Let’s play the long game”. He looks at me, bewildered. So I continue soothingly, “Big sis will be the last of us to bear child ”. His eyes widen as the full realisation of what this means hits home. He stammers, “Sar, Sar…this is big, really big”. I smile. Oh yes. Baby blankets, sleeping bags, bouncers, playmats, unused scratch mitts, knitted cardigans, clothes sized from newborn to toddler and beyond, slings (structured and wrapy), maternity wear, walkers, jumpers, car seats, baby bath (I could go on); all of it dribble bibs n all would be dumped on her. Period. She would ultimately lose this fast-paced game of paraphernalia hot potato.
*Interesting phenomenon. B1’s Preschool returns soiled attire back to you at the end of a session, spoils included, wrapped up together, a tidy faecal sac of fun. My heart sinks when I pick up B1’s rucksack to find it heavier now than I left it 3 hours previous (B1 all the lighter for it) followed by the warm stench of potentially hours-old human excrement. I stopped packing her fruit snack in the rucksack after the first time. I mean, even toddlers need to be treated with some decorum. That aside, I’ve often wondered if anyone, boasting a greater attachment to their sprog’s sullied clothing, is brave enough to tear open that sweaty little poo package.
**Those in denial (usually of the middle class variety) embrace the term ‘co-sleeping’ to refer to this uncomfortably cosy arrangement, as if they’ve had some choice in the matter. Yes, the very same people who did such a thing as ‘get the baby’s room ready’ before said baby was born. May or may not use the stomach-churning ‘dream feed’.