There went the crib. The crib and changing table went off today with a soon to be new family, woodworker hobbyist and gestating wife.
I cried…a few times. The crib is a thing, a thing that can be replaced, and eventually will have to be. But it's also barely worth what we sold it for considering the rebuild The Man had to do in order to make it work as a toddler bed after our 3rd move in 4 years. It's not worth moving it or storing it. Except for the sentimental value—Miss Monkey's baby teeth marks went with the crib you see. When I was growing up possibly too much emphasis was placed on things. The things I couldn't have, the things we were meant to keep in order for them to become heirloom. What think I'm missing is the connection that arises from an heirloom item. Heirlooms are poisoned though when not given freely, as a gift, and resentments build on both sides.
That the object holds memory is illusion. I hold memory with me, regardless if the object exists. I might even have a more distinct memory now that the object is missing. And after selling things on Craigslist for the past couple of weeks, I question whether or not the items we've sold still exist or ever did at all. The "out of sight, out of mind" factor is strong. For instance I had completely forgotten what is in the plastic moving tubs we never unpacked for this house. Do those things still hold value for me? For us? It's hard to say until we're able to cull through it all again. I'm noticing a definite thinning out of what I once thought was important and what I consider important now. Photographs from 20 years hold very little meaning, and where I once had a pathological need to photograph everything I did in case I should forget any piece of it, that's past. I only want to keep the poignant photos, the ones that I want to frame, or the ones that mark life changing events. I think this photo fix is tied into another need to remember everything exactly right, 'cause I never knew (still don't) when someone might deny an occurrence happened, or twist the reality so badly that it's unrecognizable. The problem with trying to commit life to exact memory is that everyone's perception differs considerably. Recently recounting a story with my mother, I prefaced my recall with "this is how I remember it, I don't know how you remember it, this is just how I remember it happening." Not until some recent spiritual work have I realized that my memory isn't exactly RIGHT all the time. To think that only I could remember everything the right way—what an ego! Having understanding and compassion for another's perception is a new, practiceable habit for me. Sheesh, having understanding and compassion for my own memory mishaps is a new habit, too!
Baby E will make do with a Pack n' Play for a while. Which is perfectly fine with her, I suppose, she has not shown preference as to where she sleeps. We are safe and we are blessed. We have a roof and we have food and clean water.
I look forward to the day when I can stop "making do". Thank god-the-universe for sweet baby smiles to remind me that all is well.