Feeling safe when buying, selling online
Anyone who’s ever purchased or sold anything on Craigslist knows that sense of relief when you realize that the person you’re doing business with is not a psychotic murderer. It’s a feeling I experience on the regular now that I deal in the thrilling secondary mom market of used children’s goods.
When I was growing up, my old winter coats would go to my cousin Kate, who remains a year younger and several sizes smaller than me. That was the extent of our hand-me-down situation, mainly because there were so few kids in our family and no internet. In the modern age, especially living in such an insanely expensive city, I’ve come to rely on the kindness of strangers who, like me, purchased far too much of the wrong stuff for their children.
I made my first Craigslist kids’ goods purchase when I was 7 months pregnant. My sister-inlaw, several steps ahead of me, recommended a space-consuming infant swing that promises to console a crying baby. She is a master secondhander and, initially appalled at her willingness to hand my precious niece used spoons, I’ve learned the wisdom of her ways. I found the swing listed on Craigslist from a seller in the Sunset for $30. It retails for $150.
Our baby has several swings, an expensive crib, and three lounging pillows, but it was that $30 Craigslist used swing that proved the most useful in his first months of life on the outside.
Craigslist isn’t where parents do the bulk of their business. There is a whole world on the internet of cheap deals and cyber swap meets, places where exhausted moms promise free goods if only someone will come pick it up from their porch without so much as a knock on the door. Toys rejected by toddlers, a box of new diapers already outgrown, or in our case, several cans of baby formula that my child is allegedly allergic to, are all offered free of charge.
“Buy Nothing (SF Families)” is a private Facebook group for parents to unload or claim all sorts of things. It’s a community that not only offers its members dibs on used toys, clothes, and supplies, but one that enthusiastically pitches in when someone asks for serious help — like a formerly homeless mom who secured housing and was in need of, well, everything. Moms from around the city commented by the dozens with offers of furniture, linens and kitchen tools. Several offered to fill this young family’s fridge. The group has become more than a virtual flea market; it’s a community of kind strangers bonded by motherhood and late-night productivity.
I’ve had lots of luck buying used baby clothes on eBay. When he came home from the hospital, I dressed my son in a plush footed pajama and matching hat that my mother purchased for him abroad. I imagined that the rest of his infancy would be similarly attired, but that was a dream that quickly died. My baby outgrew those gorgeous pajamas in a matter of hours.
And while he’s busy outgrowing clothes, my son also likes to cover them in bodily fluids. He has more nightly outfit changes than Cher. So I search eBay for bulk baby clothes. A recent $21 purchase of “Lot of Baby Boy clothes, 6-9 months” scored us about 50 pieces of clothing, from Gymboree pajamas to Gap hoodies. A few items were off-season and I rejected a couple for sheer cheese factor, but on the whole, I saved a few hundred dollars. (And yes, my son slept in Santa pajamas last night. Who cares? He certainly doesn’t.)
A girlfriend of mine uses Mercari and another buys baby clothes on Poshmark. Both are apps where users can buy and sell used clothes. One friend had minor success on Facebook Marketplace, which is the unimpressive Facebook version of Craigslist.
On Saturday night, my phone glowed with a text from a number I didn’t recognize. “Almost there!” it said. I’d given a stranger my phone number and address in the hopes that she (at least, she said she was a she) would pay me $60 for the SnuggleMe baby pillow that failed to impress my son. Minutes later, with my baby hidden in the back of the house and a tube of pepper spray in my pocket, I greeted a very pregnant woman at my door. I felt that sense of relief.
“Oh good, you’re not a serial killer,” I joked.
“That’s funny,” she said, with a smile. “I was worried the same thing about you.”
On Saturday night, my phone glowed with a text from a number I didn’t recognize. “Almost there!” it said.