I got the next size of baby clothes down the other day (and by "got", I mean "sent husband into the loft for, then had minor disagreement over the existence of a second box, so sent him back up and refused to let him come down until he had fished said box out from a mouldy car seat and three years worth of Theatre Studies notes"). Today I finally managed to get them all put away in The Littlun's drawers. In truth, the skinny little Littl'un could probably get a good couple months more wear out of her current size, but I am bored of looking at them all, so the poor little love is destined to spend the forseeable future with her (blessedly different) trousers falling down around her knees.
So I spent a chunk of this morning sorting drawers while the children played with empty nappy boxes and argued over blankets. It was weird. Not the arguing, that's par for the course and I'm not sure I tuned most of it out anyway. But the outfits. The clothes I was putting away seemed to be the clothes of a little girl. There were outfits I identified as "favourites", that I recall there being screaming fits over because The Big'un wanted to wear them to nursery and would not accept that they were in the wash. I folded the top and trousers that The Big'un wore to come and meet her little sister for the first time, whereupon she promptly decided the baby was thirsty and tried to share her beaker of water. I'm not sure I'm ready to put these clothes on my teeny baby.
Except, of course, she's nothing of the sort. She's a walking, kind-of-talking, fruit-devouring, cheese-demanding proper little toddler. I really should get my head around this.
There is no point to this charming little anecdote, other than the fact that it freaked me out a little bit. But on a related note, when I did put the clothes away, I stacked them in rows, rather than piles, so you can see everything, in accordance with number 18 on this list of "Life Hacks to Simplify Your World". Mind. Blown.