Many Magic Erasers and Meltdowns Later...
I can’t recall a move this painful and protracted, but that may be because in the past all of our relocations have been to lateral or larger homes and therefore it was just a matter of making a few Goodwill runs, giving the old place a good scrub and then excitedly arranging new rooms. What didn’t immediately fit always could be stored in an attic, garage or basement.
Until now.
We halved the size of our living space and with that came a lot of soul-satisfying giveaways and weepy trips to trash bins. I did have one cheat, renting a 5x6 storage unit to keep some heirloom furniture and boxes of sentimental stuff because there’s only so much my maternal heart could handle.
My husband and sister had long accused me of being a pack rat, which I’d always denied because our homes never looked cluttered. And yet when I hung up my sixth never-used robe, I had to admit they had a point. And when I counted my 12th – 12th! – blanket, I had to admit I had a problem.
One closet and dresser was (ok…still is) full of nothing but running and exercise clothes. Just imagine if I didn’t do an annual purge.
Hardest to let go were old yearbooks dating to 1974 that I never knew were damaged in the garage flood during last winter’s relentless rains. And I chucked 20 years’ worth of newspaper clips except my columns, realizing that my heirs would never express an interest in reading that their great-grandmother covered the Grottoes sewage system controversy of 1984. And when my husband asked why we had 20 wine glasses, I told him "to entertain." Then I realized: We won't be entertaining anymore. Not in this condo's tight confines.
There’s stuff I didn’t mean to throw away, like my driver’s license. And stuff I still am unaware I no longer possess. Just this morning I almost gave away handmade gifts my girls gave me in grade school. They were stuffed deep in a box of stemware I hadn’t opened in four years.
That feeling that once-cherished relics no longer have a place here has been a source of mourning these past few weeks. It’s one thing to be done raising children and quite another to now live where there is little evidence that we are a family of four. It’s getting better, though, because I am again running, and with less of a heavy heart.
Our girls have moved on. It’s time I did too.
Until now.
We halved the size of our living space and with that came a lot of soul-satisfying giveaways and weepy trips to trash bins. I did have one cheat, renting a 5x6 storage unit to keep some heirloom furniture and boxes of sentimental stuff because there’s only so much my maternal heart could handle.
My husband and sister had long accused me of being a pack rat, which I’d always denied because our homes never looked cluttered. And yet when I hung up my sixth never-used robe, I had to admit they had a point. And when I counted my 12th – 12th! – blanket, I had to admit I had a problem.
One closet and dresser was (ok…still is) full of nothing but running and exercise clothes. Just imagine if I didn’t do an annual purge.
Hardest to let go were old yearbooks dating to 1974 that I never knew were damaged in the garage flood during last winter’s relentless rains. And I chucked 20 years’ worth of newspaper clips except my columns, realizing that my heirs would never express an interest in reading that their great-grandmother covered the Grottoes sewage system controversy of 1984. And when my husband asked why we had 20 wine glasses, I told him "to entertain." Then I realized: We won't be entertaining anymore. Not in this condo's tight confines.
There’s stuff I didn’t mean to throw away, like my driver’s license. And stuff I still am unaware I no longer possess. Just this morning I almost gave away handmade gifts my girls gave me in grade school. They were stuffed deep in a box of stemware I hadn’t opened in four years.
That feeling that once-cherished relics no longer have a place here has been a source of mourning these past few weeks. It’s one thing to be done raising children and quite another to now live where there is little evidence that we are a family of four. It’s getting better, though, because I am again running, and with less of a heavy heart.
Our girls have moved on. It’s time I did too.
