While spring cleaning has become a popular, annual event in
homes far and wide, I started mine a little early this year.
The holidays were great, but they made me realize one thing:
I have way too much stuff.
It’s amazing the things one can accumulate in life. In the three,
short years I’ve lived in my house — and the ten years I’ve been married — the
stuff has just piled up.
So, when we couldn’t open the door to our walk-in attic, we
became slightly concerned, and realized it was time to take action.
I don’t consider myself a hoarder, but I do have a hard time
letting go of things.
My husband just laughs at me.
He even labeled one of my totes, “Baby Clothes Rachael Can’t
Part With.”
I do want it noted, I did just pair it down to one tote though. Props to me; I’m really getting good at this.
I’m pretty sure I could never be a minimalist, despite its lure
of freedom. And I do know that stuff is just stuff, and we all have to give it
up one day.
But, as much as I’d like to think I’m not tied to my
personal possessions, it’s hard for me to see a future without the past.
Take for instance, I didn’t even know my great grandmother
was a writer until the other day when my grandparents pulled out an old album with
some of the articles she’d written for The Advocate newspaper in Baton Rouge,
La.
I knew writing was in my blood because of my father, but, as
it turns out, it hits me from both sides of the family.
No wonder I can’t escape it, as hard as my ability to
procrastinate lets me try sometimes.
Thank goodness my grandparents are a bit like packrats.
But, truthfully, it becomes harder to whittle your stuff
down, the older you get. You have more and more to preserve — an entire
lifetime of memories.
And you think you will remember it all; but, it’s amazing
how much you can forget.
My husband and I both have narrowed our lives from “before
kids” down to one giant tote each.
Who knows, someday, our boys may actually want to know what
we were like before we were parents … supposing there was such a time.
My youngest son certainly doesn’t seem too convinced. When I
recalled something about my childhood to him the other day he said, “Mom, you
were never a kid.”
And, yes, while this might seem to be true, I have proof
otherwise.
I have pictures, horse show ribbons, love notes, and a
T-shirt from second grade (I still wear) to prove that mothers were children
once, too.
The hard truth about being a parent is that it turns you
into a whole new genre: a sentimental hoarder.
When you’re young, you roll your eyes as your mother pulls
out your second-grade poem and cries as she reads it to you.
Wow, talk about issues.
Then, one day you wake up and you literally can’t throw away
a tiny Post-it that you son wrote “I love you mom” on in crayon before he could
even spell.
Getting rid of my stuff is hard; getting rid of my kids’
stuff is almost impossible.
Sometimes, I even find myself going back and digging out things that I’ve tried to give or throw away.
It’s sad, really; I may be a lost cause.
But, when it’s hard to remember my lanky boys as round, chubby
babies with rolls of thighs, all I have to do is pull out those tiny, itty-bitty,
camo pants.
Suddenly, the smell of dirty diapers, sleepless nights, and
rocking well-fed babies to sleep doesn’t seem so long ago.
I never really knew what life was all about until I saw it
through the eyes of a mother.
A house is just a building, and — yes — stuff is just stuff.
But the people inside the house, and the memories attached to the stuff, well,
that’s what really matters.
Of course, you can’t hold on to everything. I’m a renounced advocate
for spring cleaning (any time of year). But, I would suggest holding on to a
few of those memories. Because, one day, you may want to look back on your
journey, and see all the places you’ve been.
You’ve lived and loved, and you have the proof.
