My mom and I are collaborating on a yard sale later this month.
I have given away arm loads of outgrown baby rompers, tiny shoes, and board books, but I’m hoping to making a little cash from some of our larger items.
There’s the once versatile jogging stroller that is collecting dust since Miss A would rather run or cruise in our more spacious convertible bike trailer, the red Dora potty seat she no longer uses, and the musical table toy that I helped Miss C unwrap on her first birthday.
Although these are just material things and I am more than happy to move clutter out of our home, I occasionally get a wistful twinge of time remembered when I see something that belongs to another era of parenting.
Now the girls are sharing most of their toys, although sometimes begrudgingly, and I no longer need a diaper bag of gear for a short trip out. The mish mash of squeaky baby toys and bag of Cheerios stashed in my purse have been replaced with hair accessories and plastic bracelets, and hot pink Hello Kitty sandals, not soft-soled baby moccasins, adorn the girls’ feet.
While I am happily reclaiming my purse, the girls are gaining independence and confidence and their own collection of purses. I work to achieve the balance between bystander and nurturer, between friend and parent. My daughters no longer need me to stand beside them and hold their hands as they find their footing; they need me to stand at a safe distance and watch them run, arms wide open, toward whatever life has to offer.