There is this itsy-bitsy part of me that wants to have another child. Okay, maybe that part of me is a little bigger than I like to admit, but it mostly has to do with the fact that my short-term memory fizzles whenever Branflake does something that melts my heart.
Exhibit A: Him laughing his fluffy, diapered little bum off at the mere presence of the cat makes up for the pain and discomfort I had to endure when the doctor broke my water.
Exhibit B: When he sleepily coos at me and snuggles in my arms, I can't resent him for the stretchmarks on my abdomen.
Exhibit C: When I look at him and say "haiiii" and he giggles I don't really feel so bad about the hours of sleep I've been missing out on.
Because of my multiple brain lapses I'm having a hard time letting go of Branflake's baby clothes. P.B. wants me to box them up and ship them to our friends that are expecting boys. With the upcoming move it makes sense to clean out Branflake's closet. I've even started a couple of times.
It starts with the decision to start packing. I'll go into the nursery with a box and the intention of only keeping a couple of my favorite outfits. Just a couple so I'll always remember how tiny he was and so I'll have some cute things for the next one.
As I sort through all the tiny clothes I can feel the tears welling up and I begin cuddling the little outfits and reasoning with myself about why I should keep this one and that one and -AWWW- I forgot about that one!
Next thing you know, the box is still empty and I've made up my mind to do something asinine like make a onesie quilt that no one but me will appreciate. Of course then I get all emotional about the very idea of cutting up those adorable little outfits. Everything ultimately winds up back in the dresser drawers and once again, I've made absolutely no progress in packing.
Don't even get me started on toys.
I think I should try to start packing another part of the house.
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