At the end of every term I have to face it. But at the end of the year it hurts more. The pile is shocking. A testament to consumerism, our disposable culture, spoiled brats.
What I’m also thinking: “Thank G-d it’s not just my kids!”
Seriously. It may take a village because the villagers are always losing their jacket.
Here at my son’s private elementary school, the clothing is nice. Lucky, True Religion, Juicy Couture. All of it lovingly chosen, packed hastily on a chilly morning, worn briefly and then forgotten on the swings, by the lunchtable, or in the MPR.
Tangled in the pile I spy a blue cuff and a red death’s-head applique on a forgotten fleece that I now remember. Old Navy? Yep, these are ours. These garments went missing sometime mid year, from our closets and also from my overstuffed mind. My son has grown since then. He’s a whole size larger.
This makes the old clothes look smaller, somehow. I’m tempted to throw them back like underweight, out of season fish and try again, for something better.
There’s a dip dyed Hurley hoodie. It looks like it would fit. How long has it been missing? How much has its owner grown? No tag. No label. No stains. No story to go with it. Someone should really snag that thing. I sigh.
“It’s all going to go to Goodwill. Who would care if we swapped sweatshirts? It’s so tempting, isn’t it?”
My husband is still digging, hunting for lunchboxes, the big umbrella, and assorted still-missing jackets. He looks at me with utter disgust. Indignant is the word.
“I’m not about to trade my integrity for a sweatshirt!” he says.
“I didn’t say I was going to DO it. I said it was tempting.” I sulk.
He should know me better. I’m a chronic rule follower. The goodie goodie. Not that there are Lost and Found rules, per se. But I couldn’t do it. What if someone accused my son of stealing their sweatshirt?
“I just wish they’d organize a swap sometime. There’s good stuff in here.” I complain.
Suddenly I want to cry.
I hate losing stuff. I hate pouring over missed opportunities. I hate these forgotten, carelessly shed, outgrown clothes. Hate. School years fly by too fast.
“I give up.” my husband says,” I can’t find anything in this heap. Let’s go home? ”
I’m relieved. Only a month till we can start shopping for back to school.
That should perk me up.