I spent a week cleaning out multitudes of baby paraphernalia, and instructed my husband to sort through his dowry of rusty treasures stored in the garage since our wedding. I organized the contents of my household into three piles: used (baby accessories, birthing books, and support hose); never-been-used (electric breast pump, Thigh Master, and cookbooks with recipes that require more than five ingredients): and will-never-be-used-again (size seven jeans, sewing machine, and anything my husband repaired). <continued below>

My husband's pile consisted of an electric exit sign, he found three years ago in a dumpster, and a pair of crutches. I knew then it would be up to me to sell our castoffs and increase the storage space in our home.

I woke up early on Saturday morning and arranged my belongings on the driveway by dawn. Then I sat in a beach chair, and waited, thinking this was the best idea I ever had because soon my closets would be uncluttered and I wouldn't be risking my life every time I needed a sweater. I closed my eyes and dreamed about the extra storage space, and cash, in my future.

"Excuse me, " my reverie was broken by a woman waving my son's first rattle. "How much is this?"

A vision of my son, playing the with it in his bassinet, flashed through my mind.

"I'm not sure how that got out here, " I said as I snatched it out of her hand and tossed it to safety behind the lawn mower, "it's not for sale."

I settled back into my chair to relax until a group of woman came up the driveway and surrounded my daughter's crib like buzzards after the kill.

"How much is it?" one of them asked.

I pictured my daughter asleep and sucking her thumb safely beneath the covers . "Sorry, it's just a display," I propped the crutches up on the side and threw an outfit dating back to the Nixon administration over the top.

The morning got worse when negotiations with a six-year old, about a Barbie Camper, grew more intense than the Middle East peace process; and I sold my daughter's ballet slippers and sobbed for 15 minutes over the matching leotard. I decided to quit when I sprained my back trying to hide boxes of baby clothes behind the waterheater without recreating the Kent State riot in my driveway.

I closed the garage door, stumbled into the house, and collapsed on the couch. When I reached into my pocket and pulled out a handful of money, I wondered what my husband would say when he found the children's belongings hidden all over the garage.

At least I had more closet space, I thought as I crammed the money back into my pocket, but that was the toughest eight dollars I ever made.