Hard hat zone

You don’t go to a yard sale needing something. You go to the yard sale to let it show you what you need.

I usually see that joke applied to Target, but it’s also true of the weekly event held at the Calvert County Fairgrounds. Spencer and I stumbled upon the massive weekly blow-out years ago and have spent many a Saturday morning wandering in the sunshine, picking up an ancient chandelier or stack of books.

We were walking along a row of vendors on the day we thought we were going to bring Oliver home. It was Spencer’s 29th birthday, and we weren’t sure what to do until we knew for sure if our son was leaving the NICU. We’d gone to the yard sale just hoping to pass the time, and got “the call” while we were there. Oliver came home a few days later.

I can also remember the first time we took our son with us, bumping him along in our now-battered stroller and trying to keep the sun off his baby skin. Being both a new mother and parent of a preemie, I felt panicky at having him just “out in the open.” (If I remember correctly, he fell asleep.)

Of course, back then, leaving the house felt like a risky task in general. I’m not sure what I thought would happen, but somehow I imagined a dragon swooping out of a cloudless sky to maul us if we dared venture beyond our driveway.

In hindsight, that was all anxiety — deep, limiting postpartum anxiety that ruled my first year of motherhood. Despite hearing people talk about depression and anxiety more than ever, I was still blind to my own situation until six months had passed and I felt like a shell of a person.

I still struggle with this, but it’s much better. Time has helped. So has guidance from a doctor. I still get easily overwhelmed and despise crowds and sometimes feel nervous when my children are not physically glued to my side (so: very often), but I don’t look for dragons anymore.

I was thinking of this as Oliver and I ran along the paths at the fairgrounds last Saturday. Spencer was pushing one-year-old Hadley in her stroller, and she was just happy to be along for the ride. Hadley actually cries when we take her out of the stroller — the complete opposite of her brother, basically.

Three-year-old Ollie cannot be contained. I can barely get him to hold my hand in busy parking lots, let alone sit in a stroller.

Spencer and I took a yearlong break from the Saturday yard sale because Oliver refused to stay with us. I didn’t feel comfortable taking him into an environment where he didn’t have the language or understanding to grasp danger. Plus? With all those cool toys sitting at tables everywhere, Ollie could not keep his paws to himself.

I mean, I get it: he’s a toddler. In his mind, toys are meant to be played with. What’s the point of having a bin full of monster trucks if you’re not going to make them crush the toes of innocent passersby?

It was exhausting, though. And I couldn’t actually look at anything. It was basically chasing Oliver in a different and more dangerous location, and it stressed me out.

We attempted the yard sale Saturday for the first time in a while. My husband absolutely loves to dig through boxes of old electronics, wires, cables and tools; he finds the most random of objects and takes them home for pennies, given the sellers are often just happy to have them gone.

Oliver has quite the collection of tractors and trucks. Loaders, backhoes, cement mixers, bucket trucks — we’re basically starting Johnson, Johnson, Johnson & Johnson Excavating over here. Even baby Hadley has taken a shine to his vehicles, given they’re constantly underfoot (and have cool wheels).

Because Ollie is so enthusiastic when he spots anything mechanical or John Deere-inspired, sellers practically give them away to our curly-haired scamp. He has smiled his way into walking off with tons of toys for a buck or two, and I don’t have the heart to refuse the sellers’ generosity (or his delighted face).

I wish I did, really, because our house is becoming a hardhat zone . . . with splashes of Elmo for Hadley.

Strangely? We’re making peace with it. Enjoying it, even.

Guess happiness really is contagious.