Actually, it started with the dishes. I bought a set of everyday dinner dishes a few years ago (two sets, really, one in mustard yellow and one in dusky green, because it’s nice when our family of five can all eat at the same time) from Wally’s. The plates had ridges in concentric circles that seemed innocuous, even playful, at first, but eventually became a source of frustration to Scooby’s efforts to eat rice with a fork. And after a while, bowls chipped, coffee mugs went missing, and a dinner plate exploded in the (malfunctioning) microwave.
It got to the point where every time I opened the dish cabinet or set the table, I got angry. Anger has usually been the starting point for my home-improvement projects. (Why do I hate coming home in the evening after a long day at work? Oh, it’s the medium-blue front door that clashes with my red-sided house (what the heck were those people thinking?). Paint it black. The dingy linoleum on the kitchen floor is making me feel all stabby inside? Wait til Rev goes out of town and lay down some faux slate tiles. That kind of thing.)
So I went online and ordered new dishes, and they arrived on Friday. No, I didn’t consult Rev – it may hurt some feminist ears to hear this (it does mine), but the kitchen belongs to me. Anyway, aren’t these pretty?
Happy and colorful (from Pfalzgraff), and no creases to hide food in!
Which meant that on Saturday, I had to take a field trip with my mom to Bed, Broomsticks, and Bonkers to get one of those plate stacker-holders you put in the cupboard. And, hey, I needed mixing bowls. And canisters for flour and sugar! (The trick to defeating your guilt over impulse-buying is to have your kid write the items on your list of things to buy as you put them in your cart, before you get to the cash register, so you can cross them off with impunity.) And then, of course, I had to purge the cabinets of all of those items that I didn’t use/didn’t want anymore. I filled a box with vases and the old heavy bowls I had just replaced, and of course the discarded dishes. Marked them “Fragile” and put them aside for charity.
Well, of course, you can’t call the charity truck for only two boxes, so on Monday (Sunday being a day of rest, after all), I took on the little kid’s room.
Imagine yourself staring at Lake Superior, which you must empty. Now imagine that you have a teaspoon in your hand. Kind of daunting, huh?
First we (Scooby, Doodle and I) went through the books, keeping only those that they decided they would read again. And the ones that Rev had kept from childhood. Oh, and then there were the special books we had read to Boy about adoption from the time he was a baby. And this gem, You Are My I Love You, which, if you have any children or know any children, you need to buy. Right now.
This task exhausted the little kids, so I sent them off to the playground and tackled the closet on my own. Which, if you think about, is the only way to do it. No, Oh, I love that game – even though most of the pieces are missing. Or, You can’t throw out this teddy that I haven’t touched in two years and three months – the magic marker might still come out of his fur!
My working rule was, if I can’t immediately locate all parts of a set, it’s gone. Broken? Gone. Looks like it might be on its way to being broken? Bye. Annoying? Pushed down to the bottom of the garbage bag. Anything in good shape that wasn't (a) currently being played with or (b) sentimentally valuable went into the charity box.
I filled three large garbage bags. And a cardboard box. The children haven’t missed anything yet.
Finally, I did laundry. And I refused to return to their drawers anything that didn’t currently fit (charity), was fall/winter and wouldn’t fit next time that season rolled around (charity), was ripped (trash), or was objectively ugly (charity – it might be someone else’s taste).
At the end of the day, this is what I heard (as I lay chilling on my bed, wiped out).
Scooby: Doodle, come look at our room!
[pause]
Doodle: Whooooaaa.
Scooby: I know! I don’t even recognize it!
Both: Thanks, Mom!
I love when children show a little gratitude for the hard work of their mother.
But even better than that, this morning when I went into Boy’s room to wake him up for school, I got the shock of my life. Turning on the light, I noticed that . . . he had picked up most of the dirty clothes from the floor and had shoved all of the pairs of sneakers (all ninety-two of them) out of the way into the closet. You could see whole patches of floor.
Maybe, just maybe, he was a little inspired by me after all. I . . . I think I just got a tear in my eye.
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