Annual Tradition

For the better part of the last decade we have had an annual tradition in our house. I can’t say it’s an event that I look forward to with great anticipation, although it does have a remarkable payoff. My trepidation is mostly because our annual tradition consists of a project that gets more and more difficult to complete each time. 
 What is this project and why does it get harder each year? Let me give you some hints. Those of you with only one child will think you understand. After reading about my tradition, those of you with two kids will mumble something along the lines of, “I feel your pain.” Those of you with three or more kids will shout, “Amen! Preach it, brother!” To which I will reply, “Did someone say something about another brother?”

Those of you in tune with your parental instincts have quickly deduced that this is more of a sippy cup story than a steak story. If you are among this crowd, I commend you for your valuable intuition pertaining to the obvious, for the tradition of which I speak is that of the annual wardrobe swap. It all started very gradually about seven years ago when my wife was pregnant with our first child. Since she had never yet experienced the joys of the maternity fashion ensemble, her wardrobe gradually changed over from the size zero shirts and pants that she once wore to the longer shirts and more spacious pants with the soft belly pocket. By the end of that pregnancy, in addition to a healthy baby boy, she also had quite a collection of maternity wear.

A month or so after our son was born, the tradition reversed. It was now time to put all the maternity clothes into a box and stash them away in the attic and return the size zero clothes to their rightful place in the closet. Oh, wait. I forgot. Nobody is ever a size zero again after giving birth to a child. No big deal. We’ll just go shopping first and get some clothes that fit, then restock the closet. And good thing we did because with her new wardrobe, she looked better than ever, even if she was now a size two.

By the time the second pregnancy came around a year or so later, the drill was established. Dad climbs up in the attic and retrieves a single box of maternity clothes while Mom pilfers a few extras shirts and pants from friends who have since had their first child. Even though Mom is a bit tired from the pregnancy, she manages to complete the wardrobe swap while dad watches the kid and keeps him out of her neatly arranged box. Simple enough. Hence my earlier comment about parents with only one child.

Nine months later, baby number two is born. Six weeks after that we do the swap once more. Mom packs up two boxes of maternity clothes, Dad stores them in the attic while mom restocks her closet with the size two wardrobe (and maybe a couple of size fours, just in case). Then along comes baby number three, only this time when Dad puts the maternity clothes away, there are thee big plastic tubs, two cardboard boxes and a partridge in a pear tree.

And that, my friends, brings us to today and baby number four. This morning I woke up to find another plastic tub of maternity clothes in our bedroom courtesy of my equally fertile sister. I looked at the tub and knew that we would have one goal for the day: complete the swap and put all the regular clothes up in the attic while making sure that the other three kids were well cared for, fed, and rested when necessary.

The day began with my wife making a quick trip to Wal-Mart to buy some new plastic tubs in which to store her slimmer fitting clothes. Thinking I could share some bonding time with my son, I called out to him. “Hey, Buddy! Do you want to go up in the attic with me?” Of course he thought that was a great idea, so I continued. “Go get your shoes on.”

“Dad, I can’t put my shoes on with my pajamas,” he replied.

No big deal, I thought. “Okay, then go get dressed, then put your shoes on,” I suggested.

“Dad, I can’t get dressed until I take a shower.”

Oh, yeah. A shower. Don’t want to forget that. So off he goes to the shower. Might as well bathe the girls too while Mom is at Wal-Mart. A half hour later, Mom was home and all three kids were clean, although their stages of dress ranged from naked to complete, with one somewhere in the middle.

After a quick repair to the light and a short lesson on electricity, Zach and I climbed up to the attic. As I stood on the ladder, my son ran around locating every box with the word “Maternity” written on the side. He handed me the boxes, tubs, moving vans, and everything else that contained pregnancy garb. Once they were all located, I started carrying them down. After dropping a box off on the ground, I again climbed the ladder only to be met by a six year old jumping into my arms as soon as my head poked up into his view. “I have to go pee!” he shouted as I caught him mid-air. After a short lecture on the dangers of BASE jumping from the attic, I lowered him to the floor and finished the job alone.

Let’s fast forward to 8:00 that same night so as not to bore you with the mundane details of trying to accomplish a single task in one day with three young children and a pregnant wife in the house. The slimmer line of clothes is now packed away in the new tubs, the closet is bare, and the bedroom is covered with various piles of maternity ensembles that need to be put away. Upon seeing this, my wife and I work like mad to get everything folded or hung and the room clean enough to sleep in. To a neat freak like myself, clean enough to sleep in means perfect. Once the room met my standard of cleanliness I carried all the boxes to the garage so I could return them to the attic in the morning. As I was coming back into the house, one small box caught my eye. “Honey, did you see this box?” I asked.

As luck would have it, she hadn’t noticed the little box so I opened it and found another wardrobe contained within its four walls. I laid the clothes on the bed and went to brush my teeth while my wife began to put them away. With fresh breath and sparkly teeth, I returned to the bedroom expecting to see the perfection which I had previously attained, only to find my lovely wife tucked into bed and a pile of clothes spread out on the chest at the end of the bed. “Weren’t you going to put these away?” I asked.

“I’ll get them tomorrow. I’m too tired,” she replied.

“That’s okay, I’ll take care of them,” I offered.

“No just leave them and turn off the light. I’m tired,” she said again.

I looked at the pile of clothes, kissed my wife, and turned off the light. Then I looked again. I could still see them, even in the dark. I can’t sleep like this. Might as well get up and write about it, I thought to myself. So I did.