Toys are a good thing.
I don’t generally post about products that the Beans or I have used (but if you ask me, I’m full of wonderful useless information about all things baby), but I wanted to share this special discount with everyone.
There is a wonderful company called eBeanstalk that takes the guesswork out of toy shopping. The site allows you to search for great educational toys by age and skill. Plus, you can create a toy registry, like the Pie and the Peanut did!
In addition to free shipping, you will receive a discount if you use the code “mommabean” at checkout! So, get to it and happy shopping!
Gluttony
I’ve written numerous times about my slight addition to baby clothes. It’s a problem that is, for the most part, under control, but which, on occasion, becomes a raging insanity that results in boxes full of unworn clothes and barely treaded shoes that are too small for a Bean.
Last week, I went through my their clothes to see what needed to be kept, what needed to be returned, what could be saved (for future Beans?), donated and/or sold. By Wednesday evening, my basement was unrecognizable. When Daddy Bean came home from softball Thursday night, I warned him not to find me in the basement (not that he could even see me, as I was up to here in Carter’s), for fear that he would finally see the scope of my addiction.
It was like every episode that I’ve seen of Intervention. Or like Cops, when the suspect swears there are no drugs in the car, but I and the officer know that there is a pipe stashed in between the seats and a baggie in the glove compartment. The suspect always looks shocked when the loot is discovered. That’s how I felt when I looked at all of the clothes. Plastic tubs were spewing pink and purple everywhere. I was tripping over sleepers and onsies. It was a mess. I knew I had to do something about it.
I sorted through what I had, setting aside some of those that had a bit of sentimental value (and a kick-ass pair of Baby GAP jeans), tossing some of the stained and saving some of the cuter things that I wanted to keep for sisters, friends, neighbors. The rest were bagged for donation or photographed, tagged, and put out for a woman who was due around the time the girls were. When she stopped by, she was amazed by my selection and commented on how beautiful the clothes were. I agreed (almost) smugly, as I stood there in years old jeans that were too big for me and a $7 tank top. Yes, as with most moms, my wardrobe has suffered as a result of the birth of the Beans.
Last night, when I went upstairs to grab pajamas for the Beans, I had to do a double-take at their closet. There are two rows of clothes and for the first time since they were born, it isn’t brimming past full capacity. In fact, the bottom row is only half full, after I removed all of their blanket sleepers. I hate to admit that I got a bit of the jitters. I felt like a junkie missing his next fix, constantly thinking back to that empty space in their closet and how it just doesn’t seem right. This morning, I shoved aside my projects to peek at Gymboree, GAP, Janie and Jack and Old Navy to see if any fall clothing had starting coming out. To my chagrin, I could only find a couple of cardigans and jackets at GAP, just enough to make me want to take a detour on my way home but not enough to fully satisfy me.
What is wrong with me?!? Just last week, I chastised myself for such gluttony! I think about the money I could have put toward the Beans’ Michigan State fund and I cringe.
DaDa just asked me what I would have done if I had been blessed with boys instead of girls. I thought, certainly I could be more reasonable. There are never any clothes in the boys’ section, I remember when I was shopping for my nephew. She may be right and maybe I’ll find out some day. Until then, I think I need a bigger basement.
I need an intervention.
My name is Momma Bean. M-O-M-M-A B-E-A-N.
Last week, I was lamenting to S about how I have “let myself go”. What that actually means, I don’t know. It sounds like it is a physical action, like I flung myself out the window or something equally dramatic and instant. But in reality, it wasn’t something that just happened, it was something that evolved.
It began when I found out I was pregnant. I decided to stop getting those ridiculously expensive highlights after reading the (mostly) untrue reports of how bad it is for a woman with child(ren). That was the beginning. I was still pretty fashionable through most of my pregnancy - I had the cutest tops and comfy boot-cut slacks and jaunty little capris. And then I went into pre-term labor. For the last third of my pregnancy I was either in a hospital gown, my Old Navy velour tracksuit (which I ordered bedside at the hospital) or my Old Navy pjs.
The evolution continued and here I am today. Too long hair with dried split ends, unruly eyebrows, old clothes. It’s not that I don’t care about my apperance. I still apply make-up and my old clothes are still relatively cute and current…right? But while I would previously spend a ridiculous amount of my paycheck on department store delectables, I instead quickly browse the rack before I make a beeline for the children’s section. Instead of checking out the new spring selection at my local GAP, I head straight for the back of the store, where Baby GAP, in all it’s denim glory, never ceases to impress me with the cutest pair of miniature boot cut jeans you ever did see.
I have plastic tubs of clothes in my basement that are slowly overtaking J’s makeshift gym. I have bags of clothes on the treadmill and weight bench, barely worn yet too small. The Beans’ closet is full to the brim with clothes that will take them through the next winter. And the shoes. The shoes.
I recently mentioned that I was embarrassed by the amount of shoes they have. This is their current shoe collection. Not so bad, right? Yeah, I’m returning a set this weekend. But I vowed not to get more shoes and instead to get more PJs.
And, I’m not alone in my addiction. I say with pride that I am not responsible for their ridiculous wardrobe. I have enablers. Grandmothers who can’t pass up a good deal. Aunts who know the importance of the perfect outfit.
I justify my purchases to J by saying that the girls needed X, Y and Z and that I’m spending money on what I would have been spending on my clothes. But really, aren’t I just the same as someone who has replaced their addiction to niccotine with a food addiction?
There is no end in sight. In fact, I’m going to Target right before we meet up with J this evening. My heart is beginning to race at the thought of it. I am a happy addict.
