Monday, October 29, 2018


This weekend, my husband and I devoted some time to making a dent in the piles of things in our basement. We've lived in this house for 24 years, and the basement, which used to actually have places to sit and work, has become the place where everything we don't know what to do with goes to die.

We agreed to start small, choosing a neutral area and a limited time frame. I can't speak for him, but I was prepared to be ruthless -- kinda. I was doing pretty well, too.

Until we got to the crib.

The child who slept in that crib is now in college. It has been packed away in a box, in pieces, for nearly two decades. In that time, new safety standards have been issued so that, no matter how many wonderful memories I associate with this piece of furniture, no future parents will want to use it -- nor should they.

There is no logical reason to keep it.

And yet...I couldn't bring myself to agree to get rid of it.

Today, as I wrote this post, I looked up the safety standards for cribs. Sure enough, drop side cribs (like the one we have in the basement) are no longer recommended -- and haven't been for seven years. The only thing this piece of furniture we so painstakingly selected, put together and, to the sad, sad dismay of my daughter, dismantled is good for is taking up space.

Though I know I have a sentimental streak, I'm not sure why this is such a challenge -- why I need to remind myself that the crib is unsafe in order to do the smart thing and recapture a rather substantial bit of floorspace in my basement. I write about organization, for heaven's sake. I should know that all the memories -- from the time we wandered around the Just For Kids Furniture Store comparing this crib to that one, up to the day my daughter sadly watched as my husband took apart the crib so she could have a big girl bed -- are mine to keep, whether the crib stays or goes.

cablemarder via Pixabay
Yet, although the actual milestone was years ago, I feel a lot like I imagine my daughter did that day she watched her dad take the crib down -- as though I'm saying goodbye to a piece of her childhood. And, though its useful days are behind it, the crib where my baby slumbered deserves something better than being hauled to the curb for large trash pick up.

But I have no other solutions and, if childhood rules apply, safety-related decisions are non-negotiable.

Maybe I just need to take another page out of my daughter's childhood book. It's okay if my husband takes the crib to the curb.

I just don't want to see him do it.

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