If you need me, I’m drowning in a pile of outgrown sweatpants

A peek into the emotional and logistical nightmare of keeping up with kids’ clothing

I hate that my children keep physically growing.

I know it’s a good thing, in theory. Tiny humans are supposed to grow into bigger humans.

But every time they sprout an inch here or there, it creates work.

Suddenly, the shoes don’t fit. Boots, running shoes, indoor shoes—time to switch them all out and get new ones. And it sounds so simple. I used to believe these things were simple! They are not.

The mental load here is a heavy one. What do I do with the old shoes? Are they in good enough condition to pass down to the next kid? Good enough to donate? If not, do I toss them? That feels weird. Should I put them in a pile and then ignore them for the next two years, and just live with a mountain of abandoned shoes in my basement, taunting me, begging me to do something with them?

Why do kids need so many shoes?

And now on to procuring new ones. I don’t want to take them shoe shopping—that sounds like a nightmare for all involved. I’ll measure their feet. Stay still! Can’t you keep your foot still for just five seconds?!

I forgot to write down the measurement. I’m just going to wing it. One size up from the last size.

I go to the store to buy the shoes. Nothing expensive, because they are children and they will grow out of the shoes two weeks later. Discount shoes are my friend. I look through the racks. Why does this store have EVERY size except the ONE size I need? It’s a shoe conspiracy.

I finally find what I need and toss it in the shopping cart. I better get a pair for the other kid, because god forbid everything isn’t always equal, even when it comes to a boring pair of shoes. Should I get sandals while I’m at it? Water shoes? Winter boots for next season? I’m here so I may as well get them, put them deep in a closet when I get home, and completely forget about them until they’ve outgrown them by at least two sizes.

I bring the shoes home. Please try them on. It will only take one minute! How do they feel? Can you lift your big toe? No, not your whole foot. Just lift your big toe so I can feel if there’s enough space. Is there enough room to wiggle your toes? What do you mean you don’t know? Walk around and tell me if they’re good. They’re fine? Are you sure? Are they too tight? How about too loose?

He doesn’t like the shoes because they’re too hard to put on. He wants me to take them back and get the other ones. No problem!

What did I do with the receipt?

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Summer is coming, which means I need to have summer clothing ready to go—swimsuits, rash guards, shorts, t-shirts.

I take the big guy’s wardrobe from last summer and move it to the little guy’s closet. I take the little guy’s wardrobe from last summer and shove it to the back of the closet because there’s no time to sort through everything right now, and why simplify things when I can just spend the next few months in clothing purgatory hating all of my life’s choices? That would be too easy.

I search for empty boxes to store the small clothes for hand-me-downs and donations. I can’t find any boxes. Why didn’t I hang onto those boxes? I start shoving clothes into a black garbage bag, which will then sit in the corner of the room for the next year, driving me nuts, but not nuts enough to do anything about it.

The older kid needs new clothes. Nothing fits! I check online to see what’s on sale. Why are all the swimsuits already sold out? It’s February! I check Marketplace for an hour and try to decide if it’s worth driving an hour for three pairs of shorts that my son will probably hate, when the seller still wants more money than I’d like to pay for some kid’s worn-out clothing. I decide it’s not.

I look through the old clothes once again to see if there’s anything that may still fit, untying drawstrings, comparing waist widths. Didn’t I accidentally buy some large-sized t-shirts last year? Where did I put those?

I look through piles and boxes in the basement. There are those snowpants I was looking for last November. They still have the tag on them, but they won’t fit anymore. I should donate them. Where’s the closest donation bin?

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Eventually, I hit my breaking point. I always do. I tell myself I’ll deal with it all later. Or maybe I’ll just go buy a bunch of new clothes and pretend the old ones don’t exist. I’ll cut off the tags from the new clothing and sort everything for the wash, while I curse all the tiny plastic fasteners that have scattered on my floor. I’ll collapse on my child’s bed, surrounded by half-folded laundry and mismatched socks, take out my phone and scroll through real estate listings in warmer climates where seasonal wardrobes don’t exist, and no one ever needs a new pair of winter boots.

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