Parting With Baby Clothes: How to Make Nostalgia Less Exhausting

I love me some sentiment. It’s why I painstakingly make hand-crafted baby books for each of my kids and compile 350-page family yearbooks. I want to remember everything.

You see, nostalgia makes a lot of sense. We never want to forget the moments in life that fill us with…well…life. And often, these moments are attached to objects. Stuff. The memories themselves are about the people, the feelings, and the events. But the stuff is what we keep…because stuff is the only thing that will keep. People change, feelings fade, and life whizzes past. We grasp for the only thing left to keep our memories of those things as vivid as possible. Next thing you know, you have an 8th grade photography project, a mousepad from your first job, and a sorority blanket sharing a box in the garage next to 35 other boxes filled with equally random objects.

This week, I got rid of Josephine’s baby clothes. I packed them all up. That fuzzy pink bomber jacket she only wore once. The knit winter hat with two giant pom moms she wore on every stroller walk. I packed up the jammies I zipped on and off of her every morning and every night during her first year, the cute little pants I bought when I got self conscious about her wearing PJs all day every day (I’ve definitely gotten over that insecurity with Baby #3), and the little gold booties with the bows on the side.

When I shared a picture on Instagram of her things all boxed up, I had so many mom friends DM me to say they haven’t brought themselves to donate their kids’ clothes. And I don’t blame them. I don’t blame anyone who holds onto those pom pom hats for the rest of time, because the pom pom hat will look the same even when the baby that used to wear it has babies of her own. That’s enough to make me cry just typing it. So I get it.

But let me tell you why I decided to part with Joey’s clothes. I’d like to say it’s because I know there’s another little girl out there who needs them, which is partially true. I am giving them to a friend who is adopting a little girl. But mostly, I did it because holding on to too many sentimental things weighs me down. Not just in the clutter sense—which I can’t stand, either—but the more I look around and see a bunch of stuff all packed away for the memories, the more I feel a little sad. I feel sad that Jo will never fit into those booties again. I don’t like knowing that those flamingo pajamas that once kept her so cozy are sitting in a dark box in the garage. Instead of the memories making me feel good, I feel a little panicky.

I know that sounds a bit dramatic. But when there’s too many sentimental items all piled together, it just looks like a big old pile of wishing life would rewind. And I don’t want to go through life wishing life would rewind. I want just enough sentiment in my home to create smiles and happy memories, not to bog down my space and my heart strings.

So I kept one box. One box of Jo’s childhood clothes. It only has about 7 items in it right now, because that box will also hold a few things throughout each year as she grows up. I’ll add to it—just the very best stuff—until she starts buying low rise jeans or crappy band tees she doesn’t even listen to. Then the bin will live in peace, and each time I pass it, I’ll remember the best stuff. That matching pink set she wore home from the hospital. The sweater our neighbor bought her from Mexico. The crocheted XTRATUF booties and the bonnet one of my best friends gave us. Maybe my granddaughter will wear it someday. As for the rest of it? I’m sure my granddaughter won’t need leggings from 30 years ago.

I have faith in the process of parting with the majority to find joy in the few because that’s what I did with my mom’s things. I have two sweaters I can always picture her wearing, one of her half marathon t-shirts she always wore for morning runs, and some of her cheesy holiday jewelry. That’s enough. Those things are enough for me to see her vividly. I can almost smell her. Almost hear her. But she’d be so annoyed with me if she knew I were dragging around her entire wardrobe with me throughout my life.

So you see, it’s not because I’m not nostalgic that I don’t hold onto much. It’s because I am so nostalgic that too much turns sad. I want that happy brand of nostalgia. Just enough to smile—not enough to waste my life wishing I could turn back the clock. Like I said, I don’t blame anyone who holds onto things for the sake of sentimental value, but for me? For me, less is more.