Hello, my name is denial

Certifiably.
Each year, as a season ends and clearance sales begin, I buy my all of my children clothes for the next year. I hang them in the closet, or put them in bins, all organized and ready to pull out of the closet when that next season and size hits. This has worked seamlessly, year after year.
With the recent weather report that Georgia might possibly see temperatures less than 92 this fall, I began to pull out jeans for the kids.
La la la, off I headed to the boys closet to see what I had scored for Phoenix to wear this fall. It's always a treasure hunt, since I will have long forgotten what cute deals were found.
There was my bin, blue & white striped for baby boy, and there were the jeans. Perfect. Several pairs of them, even better.
Only... wait. They looked a bit small, somehow. And familiar.
Oh no. Oh no no no.
Friends, in some misguided sentimental state, I packed away last winter's jeans (18-24 months) and put them in the next-up size bin as though the child was not going to grow. In a year.
There it was, his sweet little sweater that I loved so well. His faded Old Navy jeans that fit so perfectly. Tiny little Phoenix, come back to me!
Memory of having done this thing, come back to me!
This can only mean one thing.
I must be suffering from....
Last Baby Syndrome.
Oh, the pain of it! Oh those last sweet kisses to chubby wrists!
The delicious smell of a bath-fresh tummy! Baby shampoo, thou shalt never leave me.
Feather-wing baby hair, never grow out.
Stubby small toes, never lengthen and become Real Toes.
Small boy...
Not so small anymore, and certainly not that size anymore.
My name is denial.