Welcome to Baby Brain, a space where I - Charlotte, hi! - write about my life as a mother of three small children - Poppet (m, 4 years), Pickle (m, 3 years) and Peach (f, 8 months.) Those are not their real names. These are real stories from our days.
Not too long ago, I painted our fireplace egg yolk yellow - a bold choice I insisted on implementing, despite my husband's reservations. The colour is… fine. It's growing on me. It’s “obnoxious,” says my husband, we’re repainting it on Sunday.
I do so hate it when he’s right.
The ways in which people decorate their homes has always fascinated me. An insight into the psyche upon crossing the threshold into a personal space is unrivalled in its ability to peel back the layers of a person's inner world, and I've spent many a mindless pram walk wondering what would be behind the walls of every house I pass should I only have the ability to open them up like a doll house. I do not have this ability, more’s the pity, but I do have several property apps, which is almost the same thing, and has so far satiated my desire to peer in through everyone’s windows when I think no-one is looking. I could write an entire post dedicated to properties I have loved on Rightmove and Zillow, and one day it’s possible that I will, but today is not that day. Today, I will share but one listing that shook me to my core on a recent browse, before moving on to what I really came here to talk about. That listing being of a beautiful, sprawling mansion designed in an enviably National Trust-esque style, an elegant home with more bedrooms than you can shake a stick at, acres of land, it’s own lake, a yoga studio and - completely out of left field - a blood red swimming pool.
Puts my yellow fireplace into perspective, doesn’t it? Maybe I won’t repaint it after all.*
*I will, it’s blinding.
Fun fact: Nap trapped, I sent the above photo of the pool to my husband with the words “fancy a dip?” He, somehow not realising the pool was red, sent me a heart eye emoji in response. I swear if I recreated that man’s whole life in cake and jumped out screaming “IS IT CAKE?” every time he used a new piece of furniture he would not notice, but I digress.
Our own home is in a transitional period. Having concluded that Peach is (probably) our last child, we have started the process of turning the house as a whole into more of a home while selling all of the children’s outgrown belongings on Facebook Marketplace, my husband spearheading the project while I - boiling the kettle nearby - collapse in on myself like a dying star.
(“There’s no rush,” I’ll say. “There is,” he’ll reply.)
Having previously been undecided when it came to the expansion of the brood, everything before now has gone into storage once its use with the current child has been maximised. Putting things into storage is easy, a job well done that comes with none of the sadness that accompanies actually letting things go, which is ideal, because as much as my power, too, flurries through the air into the ground, my soul spiralling in frozen fractals all around, the actual act of letting things go leaves me feeling less like Elsa in her ice castle, more like Anna wilting in front of the fire after being betrayed by the bloke that looked her dead in the eye and promised in song to help her finish her sandwiches*. (*A joke I believe was first attributed to Arrested Development, but we’ll let that one go, too)
Bypassing storage and going straight to the tip hits different which is perhaps why, one night in bed with Peach, I started to (somewhat seriously) consider an alternative.
We were watching Sort Your Life Out. A genteel version of Hoarders or, indeed, any show about hoarding, SYLO is a show in which a lovely lady called Stacey Solomon enters a home alongside her equally cuddly team (Dilly, Rob and Iwan) and finds not disgust in her heart for the absolute state the dwellers have gotten themselves into - the Hoarders MO, if you’ve not had the pleasure - but empathy. Endless empathy. Were Stacey to find a decomposing cat in the loo, for example, she’d probably have a little cry with it’s former owners and craft them a pint sized coffin decorated with glued on paper flowers before performing a full on feline funeral - singing Memory through genuine tears as the cat is lowered into the ground - whereas the Hoarders crew would scream into the owner’s face and possibly have them sectioned.
It’s incredibly wholesome, and I dream a dream* of joining in.
*Second musical reference in two paragraphs - I was a theatre goer, once upon a time.
Cradling my rapidly growing daughter the night of the binge™, I oohed and aahed as Stacey and co laid out the featured family’s belongings in a giant warehouse, ready to (very gently) shame them into a purge. Fascinated, I admired the organised ways in which their every possession was presented for scrutiny. Sentimental, I thought ‘what a great thing it would be, if I could just have a warehouse for all of the things I've collected in motherhood/things my children have decided they no longer need’ and, slightly delirious in my sleep deprived yet wired state, ‘I wonder if there's a way I could get Stacey to do this for me,’ I thought, ‘only without any intention of moving anything back out once in.’ (And there I'd sit, fresh cup of tea in hand, basking in the rows and rows of my offspring’s archived childhood in silence, not a charity bag in sight, and it would be glorious.)
Everyone has a fantasy and this, apparently, is mine.
The reality is somewhat different, for two reasons. One) I looked at warehouses on Rightmove and, after moving some money around, concluded that renting a £20-£40k pcm warehouse on my £0 pcm salary simply would not be viable and 2) my husband - who has no such qualms about crushing my soul via the removal of my memories - has set his mind to clearing the ‘clutter,’ and is intent on dragging me down with him.
It began with the double pram. Gleefully scrubbing the purple monstrosity I have long hated but for some reason couldn’t bear to part with, “someone’s picking it up tomorrow,” he told me, “just think how much more space we’re going to have.” Thrilled, “they want the Perfect Prep as well!” he exclaimed, to my pearl-clutching horror. And then he slaughtered re-gifted a giant Peppa Pig that Poppet once loved with all his heart but now has no time for, and I just about expired. (“It’s OK mummy, I don’t need it,” said Poppet, stabbing both Peppa and me through the heart with his words and leaving us to bleed out on the Totter and Tumble, which was easily the best purchase we’ve made as parents, in case anyone was on the fence about buying one.)
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As my husband became increasingly giddy at the prospect of finally having some space, I started to come around to the idea and, briefly abandoning my fantasy to keep hold of absolutely everything, got stuck in with the declutter. As the boys played in their room one very long weekend, my husband and I tackled years worth of toys in the lounge below, bagging up items that once held value but no longer have much worth - for us, anyway - including a wooden kitchen, about thirty of those baby blankets with teddies attached that everyone buys but I've never seen anyone use, and ancient pieces of toast my children apparently considered to be play things. I recycled old drawings and cleared out old birthday cards and then, in a step too far, bagged up Peach’s collection of tiny, outgrown dresses, ready to give to the mum at play group whose baby reminded me of my own. Fast forward a couple of days and there I was, proud of myself as I handed said mum Peach’s best first clothes, my resolve to join my husband’s mission crumbling around me like so many sugarless cookies bashed up at the bottom of a pram (oddly specific, but an insight into my life) as I realised what was about to transpire - picture someone who is screaming NO NO NO WHAT HAVE I DONE NO on the inside whilst trying to remain outwardly calm - and once again dreamt of my SYLO style outhouse. The nice mum took the bag of my beautiful daughter’s minuscule outfits, at least half of my torn up heart going with it as I let go of the straps, tempted to snatch the lot back and take them home to enshrine, memories written on little cards attached to each so none were ever forgotten. ‘Wore to a christening when she was three days old.’ ‘The first thing I bought when I knew she was a she.’ ‘A key piece in our mission to make hip dysplasia chic.’ And so on.
I did not give in to my mildly psychotic impulses to steal back the clothes, if you were wondering. It’s been over three months and I still sometimes wish that I had.
The true root of the issue I’m having here isn’t, of course, the items I’m parting with. Most of the pieces I feel this week attached to are things I thought we’d already thrown out, and had honestly forgotten we owned. It’s more that when I look around and see what’s going, I’m seeing my children going with them. Parts of them that were, parts of them that will never be again, the person and mother I was in those periods, the mother I will become over and over as more and more of what we have is shed. This week the Perfect Prep, next week the bouncer chair, then what? As the things move out we get one day ever closer to the day the children move out, which is years away, I know, but mothers are but mad creatures, and all I can think is how sad it will be when they’re gone.
(Of course, it’s also possible I’ve just watched the Toy Story movies more times than is healthy, having been obsessed myself as a child, and now being in possession of children that love them as much as I did, making it hard to throw anything away in case it has feelings. Speaking of which, during the aforementioned clean up, we came across the neglected Woody doll my children for a long time insisted on calling ‘Cowboy,’ while idolising their 20+ Buzz Lightyear figurines - as well as Buzz’ cat, Sox - and my heart broke for him. In a similar vein, a woman I follow recently posted that she’d replaced her child’s Lots-o’-Huggin bear when the other got lost on holiday, and my genuine, hand on heart reaction was ‘my god, has she not seen the film? That bear is on his way home and he is going to be PISSED.’ To my relief, Woody/Cowboy has recently been chosen as an object of true love by Peach, who likes to chew his face and feet. He probably wishes I’d given him to charity, after all. No word yet on the return of vengeful Lots-o’.)
Back in March, Poppet’s friend’s mum dropped off a bag of her own daughter’s clothes for Peach, replenishing her wardrobe with a new batch of pint sized belongings, and the cycle continues on and on, all of us mothers admitting one after the other that yes the days are long but yes the years are really bloody short and isn’t it awful that the people that annoyed us so much by spouting such nonsense have turned out to be right?
(That mum was pleased to be rid of her belongings, nine years after her daughter’s birth, so perhaps there’s hope for me yet.)
All of which brings me to today when, hanging up Peach’s (first ever) tutu - an impulse purchase I am obsessed with - I thought once more about the double pram, the discarded wooden kitchen and, of course, the OG tiny dresses. The first time they were worn, the last time, the uncomfortable way in which I lingered like a Cranberry when handing over the goods. I reflected on their significance, and was just on the brink of getting a tad too contemplative when an absolutely enormous spider ran out of a bag of clothes and up my arm, bringing me back down to earth just in time to realise that sometimes it is for the best to get rid of things you’re not using anymore, because if you don’t, creatures will live inside them and that’s just gross. Sealing Peach’s door shut after this incident, never to be opened again, my reflection changed somewhat to gratitude as I thought on the next stages we get to indulge in now that the stages behind us are gone - each bringing its own haul of stuff to break my heart over, but with the trade off of so much joy. Joy, and new memories. Joy, and a clutter free life for my children. Joy, and one less hangout for spiders.
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Until next time 👗🕷️
Just know that I saved my own toddler clothes (ok my mom saved them) my whole life for my son to wear and when he outgrew them I put them back in the box for the next generation. I hope the next generation enjoys wearing what are, at this point, very old rags. I WILL NEVER LET GO.
Charlotte, you and the mother of my two girls need to talk. I swear, if I looked hard enough and dug in enough boxes, I could find a toddler size pair of Winnie the Pooh pajamas and a Snow-White Halloween costume, both over 25 years old. And several pairs of tiny shoes that a big toe could hardly fit into now. You know what though? I don't mind it. I enjoy looking at those and remembering too. As always, so well written and oh so conversational (in every positive way possible). Said it before and I'll say it again, it doesn't matter what you write, I'm all in....Says the crime fiction writer. - Jim