I’ve always been a fan of yard sales. Apparently what you call them hints at where you were raised- yard sale, tag sales, garage sale. I have memories of going with my dad to yard sales- once excitedly finding a Mr. Potato Head! We would hit up the annual town fundraiser, sometimes filling up a garbage bag and paying by the pound. Out of college, I hit up craigslist and estate sales to help furnish our first apartment. The habit continued into grad school and even when I was making a decent salary in my first job, I still was drawn to the yard sales. I often would pick up furniture left out for free on the side of the road, so I am no stranger to other people’s discardings.
After we had our big ultrasounds- the anatomy scan and the heart ultrasound- the ones that told us Mabel didn’t have any of the typical birth defects tht often come with Down Syndrome, I finally felt comfortable enough to start buying some baby supplies. Chris tacked down some secondhand cloth diapers on Craigslist and we nabbed a bunch of those. We drove an hour to buy the carseat we wanted from another ad on Craigslist. We made a trip to try out rockers at Babies-R-Us. We started a registry on Amazon. But when Chris came home one day with a high chair he picked up off the side of the road in our well-to-do town, I couldn’t find my usual warmth for this secondhand find.
Chris was confused. “We’ll bleach it,” he said, knowing my affinity for the cleaning product might sway me. I had already narrowed down the high chair I wanted, looking at reviews and prices. I think in my head I wanted to pick out the high chair special, not get whatever we could find. I agreed to hang on to it, figuring I’d eventually sway him into getting a new one. Until we deep cleaned it, it sat in the basement.
A few weeks later we were given the news that we might not need that high chair. The low fluid diagnosis at 27 weeks did not bode well for our baby and so we absorbed the words of the doctors when they said she might die. Her kidneys weren’t working and the resulting low fluid would make her lungs small- perhaps too small to support her. We stopped buying baby supplies. I cancelled my baby shower. We hid our registry. The high chair got moved to the basement.
A few months later, Chris packed up all the baby stuff and hid they in the attic, so I wouldn’t see the painful reminders of my dead baby. The high chair, though, stayed in the basement, tucked deep into the utility room so I wouldn’t cross its path when I did laundry.
Chris and I had a day off this week and ended up using it to simply do housework we had been avoiding. One task we crossed off the list was bringing the big pile of clothes and housewares to Goodwill. I threw the highchair into the car. I wasn’t fond of it before, but now I resented it, a symbol of what I did not get to have. Chris relented and we schlepped everything off to Goodwill. After unloading the bags and boxes, the highchair was the last item he brought to the storefront. He returned to the car with it in hand.
“They don’t take baby stuff.”
So we still have the highchair. I know of a few places that will likely take it, but they will take some extra coordination and trips. We might just find a dumpster and ditch it, which we both hate the idea of because it’s in fine shape and there are people who would gladly take it.
I now hate that high chair. It’s haunting me.
What haunts you?