I love that line.
That’s how I’m feeling right now after a whirlwind couple of weeks gutting my drawers, closets, and the dark and scary recesses of the basement. The kids, my girlfriend, and I are heading to the Oregon coast for a vacation soon. I’m always getting rid of things here and there. They go into a bag that sits in my front closet until I remember to take it to the Youth Ranch. Recently as I was asking my kids to try and find some toys that they no longer play with so I could donate them, (I really just wanted to clear a little space and clutter. That is all!) They asked if they could sell them instead and pocket the money. Eureka! (dumbass) Let’s sell them but use the money for our Oregon trip! And from here was born the decluttering of the decade.
Not a kitchen cabinet was left unopened. Nary a drawer kept its items intact. My dining room became ground zero. Knick knacks, clothing, toys, books, and oddities (Is it cool or not so cool to sell intimate items with the tags still on them?) covered its surface. The chairs. The floor underneath. And soon it began to spill out into the living area.
My girlfriend made a face like she was choking when I told her our plans. Yard sales, she loathes them. No problem! We are doing it on our own! It’s a great opportunity for the kids to help and to contribute to the trip. A while later, she said she was in. Super. We were even going to do it at her house. Great. No problem. Her garage is now stuffed to the brim and waiting for the big day. So.Much.Stuff.
Speaking of stuff, going through all of that shit is quite the emotional process. Not only did I go through things so I could sell them, I also decided to go through EVERY.FREAKING.BOX in the basement in order to just purge purge purge. (I told you. If you give a mouse a cookie... or a woman on a decluttering warpath an unopened box.) I’ve done a pretty damn good job getting all of the boxes in my head sorted and organized. Time to take care of the real deal as well.
I curiously opened boxes and lovingly poured over the artwork of my children. I smiled at the “I love you Mom” scribbles. I traced my fingers over their flaking masterpieces of tempera painted stick figures and trees. And then I started tossing that shit. Touch, smile, toss. Don’t get me wrong, I saved some. But it was really only the good stuff. There are only so many “I love you Mom” scribbles a woman needs to save. The first child, my god, I actually dated all of her scribbles and had a line or two on the back detailing what the scribble was. Yep, tossed that, too.
One of the greatest things about the kids’ school are their portfolios. The teachers go ahead and put the best two years of their work into these ginormous binders. No need for me to save any other stuff. Rian had a couple of years at a parochial school. I had to choose carefully there. Finn went to preschool there as well. The traced heart picture that said “I’ll clean my room for God.” It was tossed readily. The finger print insect picture... I’ll hang on to that little gem.
There was much more than just kid shit here. I have photos. Oodles of them. And love notes. And poems. And keepsakes. From my marriage. What in the hell do I do with these things? Most of the notes and poems were those I had written. I saved shit I wrote to someone else. WTF? Do I save them so the kids can see them some day? Do I toss them?
It is pretty much organized down in the basement now (I cannot vouch for the room belonging to the teenager). It’s organized up here in my noggin’ as well. I am good. I have a bit of lingering mess here and there for all the things that are staying and still need to put a few things in their places. But it is good. It feels good.
(Yard sale this Saturday should you have any desire to take home a pair of high heels or hot wheel car.)