If, some time, I don’t update this blog for more than a week, please send a search party. I can guarantee I will be stuck in a makeshift baby-vest tent under the piles and piles of clothes in our house.
So, there are four of us, and we all have clothes, of course, but when you factor in the change of seasons and the fact that some of us outgrow our clothes every two weeks, our house is a bit like a very badly presented children’s clothes emporium at the moment.
First, there’s the usual pile of clean washing to sort out and put away. I don’t know why I find this task so arduous except that if you ever manage to do it, the pile regenerates after a day so it just seems pointless to try in the first place. You can’t do it when the kids are awake because Ziggler wants to ‘help’ you (which involves finding the prettiest items she can find and putting them all on, on top of each other) and Pickle wants twizzle everything around her head and then eat it. When they’re asleep, I just don’t want to do it, frankly, and there’s plenty of other stuff that needs to be done like sitting down and having a nice cup of tea and a biscuit.
Then there are the clothes that have been grown out of or are no longer suitable for the weather. This group is made up of those that need to be kept for Pickle, and those that don’t fit anyone any more but we have to keep in case in some moment of insanity we decide to have another baby, or in case the people they were handed down from need them back.
Next, there are the new season and appropriately-sized clothes. Some have been extracted from the loft, or wherever, and were obviously stuffed in there higgledy piggledy by some lazy slattern the last time The Great Clothing Shift occurred, so all need sorting, washing and putting away. Some are hand-me-downs, for which I’m very grateful of course. I would be even more grateful if their kind giver would come round, sort them out and put them all away in the children’s cupboard. Unfortunately even if they felt the remotest compunction to do so they are presumably camping under their own pile of assorted children’s attire.
Then there is the pile of clothes which is completely inappropriate for size, season and just, well, anything. Pickle is a bit ginger so doesn’t suit all the pink stuff Ziggler wore as a baby. Pickle was born at the beginning of winter and Ziggler at the end, so the bikinis, sun hats and shorts have to go. Then there are the articles which are just weird, like the puce, woollen, short sleeved babygro which some well meaning relative made for Trulove when he was little, or weird and horrid, like the neon green waterproof vest that I bought in TKMaxx when pregnant with Ziggler because it was such a bargain, without considering that it was also utterly foul. I’m not sure why we haven’t got rid of these but it might be because we’ve lost the habit of actually getting rid of anything, or maybe because we’ve forgotten you actually can.
Apart from my natural reticence, the children make it bleedin’ impossible to finish the sort-out. Ziggler has recently formed very strong opinions about what she wants to wear, based on wanting to look like a ballerina at all times. There is a particularly skimpy yellow vest top which was great on our holidays but will prompt social services to come round if I let her wear it outside in November and about which she is insistent she is keeping, so every time I try to put it away she finds it and squirrels it away until she thinks I’ve forgotten about it. Pickle insists on growing and growing and growing, so sorting out her clothes is a Forth Bridge-painting type job.
So this upshot is I’m currently feeling a bit oppressed by clothes. At the top of the pile are about six items, half bought some time in 1994 when I needed new clothes for the sixth form. This is my entire wardrobe. At least putting it away is easy.