The Mother Load

Published June 15, 2008
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

As I sit and write this column, I find myself startled from time to time by the silence of my house. Twisting in my computer chair, I look suspiciously toward the stairs and think, What are they up to? It’s way too quiet up there. Reality sets in with a jolt as I remember they’re not up there at all. All five kids are in a minivan with their grandparents, heading for a three week vacation in New Mexico.

I don’t know what to do with myself. The longest I’ve ever been away from all of them was 6 days, and I survived that by the skin of my teeth, the seat of my pants, and the edge of my seat.
Fortunately for me, I’m organized. I already have a list of projects lined up to keep me busy. So far I’ve been able to check off crying, sniffling, bawling, blubbering, and wailing. I’ve been tear free for about five minutes now, so I’m almost ready to move on to shaking uncontrollably, followed by hours and hours of abject misery. It’s going to be a busy day.

I’m probably being overly dramatic, but they’ve only been gone an hour at this writing. I really do have a plan. There will be a whole lot of unpacking, organizing, wallpapering, and painting going on in my house over the next few weeks. It’s hard to know if I’m taking advantage of an opportunity or just doing this to keep my mind off the kids’ absence. Chicken…egg…omelet…who knows?

Every now and then, I look up from my computer and shout, “Work it out!” just to have something to say to the silence. I’ve also started focusing more on the cats, scolding them with admonitions like, “Euclid, you know you’re not supposed to climb on the counters,” and “Isis, that wasn’t very nice, was it? Apologize to your brother,” and “Buster, use your words. I can’t understand you when you whine like that.”

I’m all geared up for the neighbors to think I’m crazy when I start spending hours at their house every day, carousing with their six children. The good news is they’re family, so they’ll probably put up with me. The bad news is they’re family, so the rest of the family will most likely learn how their newest member is a little on the unstable side.

Mealtimes are going to be a bit of a problem. I’ve spent the last few years cooking for a crowd. Unless it’s a romantic, candlelit dinner, I don’t know how to cook for two. Either Richard and I are going to have to eat nothing but steak, salmon, and Cornish game hens, or we’re going to have to eat giant tubs full of spaghetti, tuna casserole, and homemade Chinese food for a week at a time. At least the candlelight will make every bite of week-old chili seem romantic and special.

I’m debating whether or not to start some kind of a daily countdown until the kids are home. I might mark the days off on the calendar or make hash marks on the bulletin board. I could also expand my list of projects so there is one for every day they’re gone. Those are good ideas, but I think I’m leaning toward something a little more creative.

I’m going to draw one of those giant thermometers and just cry over it every day until the water mark reaches the top.

Published June 8, 2008
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

Merry Christmas!

What? Only June, you say? Well, it may be June to you, but it’s Christmas in my house. For someone who hates moving as much as I do, I have to say unpacking a house is like experiencing the joy of Christmas morning over and over and over again.

The boxes may not be brightly wrapped, but they’re securely fastened and filled with exciting and wonderful items. Every day is punctuated with shouts of, “Mom! I’ve found the…” followed by amazing and dazzling things like, uh, soap…and pans…and underwear.

Okay, so it’s not quite Christmas, at least not any Christmas I want to have, but it’s the same concept anyway. After only a few days in a box-filled house, anyone can find themselves elated over objects like toilet paper and Sunday shoes. (After our first trip to church in flip flops and sneakers, the Sunday shoe box was a very welcome discovery.)

Actually, the Christmas morning thing occurs when you’re packing too. It’s that one bright spot in all the packing chaos…those moments when you move the couch, discover untold riches, raise your treasure aloft and shout, “I’ve been looking EVERYWHERE for this!” (Though, can one really say “everywhere” when one just found it in one of the many places she never looked?)

In my move I found my daughter’s long lost glasses, a few important legal documents, a few hundred forks, spoons, knives, and socks that I’ve replaced needlessly on many an occasion and a much needed charger for the digital camera I haven’t used in three years. The only downside of all of this is that in my desire never to move again I realize I’ll never again have the assurance of, “Meh, I’ll find it when I move.”

Of course, unpacking isn’t all unseasonal yuletide frivolity. Once a box is unpacked, you have to find a place for then things in it, and all the places are taken up by all the stuff that still isn’t unpacked. Upon moving into my new abode, my new brother-in-law, Bill, astutely remarked, “20 minutes to get the truck unloaded…four more months of work left in there.”

Unpacking a house is a lot like juggling debt. There’s a lot of robbing Peter to pay Paul going on. Can’t arrange the dining room until I get the dresser downstairs. Can’t move the dresser until I get that chair out of the kitchen. Can’t move the chair until I arrange the front room couches. Can’t arrange the front room couches with my very helpful sister sleeping in one of them. Once you do get a room set up, you realize you’ve made an impossible mess of another in order to do it.

The good news is that only a few weeks have passed since moving day, and I have nearly every room arranged and only 10-15 boxes left to unpack. Bill’s warning notwithstanding, I don’t really think it will take me another three months to finish this job. As long as I can manage to keep Peter from knowing what I’m paying to Paul, I’ll be fine. I may even leave one box unopened until Christmas just for the fun of it. Maybe it will be the camera charger just in time for Christmas pictures.

If it’s a box of my underwear, that might be kind of embarrassing, but I’m willing to take that chance

Published May 25, 2008
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

I remember writing a column four years ago detailing the ridiculous number of times I had moved in my life and resolving never to do it again. Then, knowing that packing up a house and moving on is something people do despite their best efforts to avoid it, I modified my resolution, stating that I would be willing to move again but only if we had become independently wealthy and could throw away everything in the house and just replace it in our new home.

Ah, the dreams of the deluded. I’m moving again, and somehow wealth, independent or otherwise, has not found me (yet). I can’t afford to get rid of everything I own, so I’m modifying my earlier plan and getting rid of everything I could live without. Easy enough, right?

Yeah, not so much. I’ve been calling this my “Confessions of a Reformed Packrat” column. Getting rid of the excess stuff in my house is a long, tedious, and often heartbreaking process. This task is where my nostalgic side does epic battle with my practical side, and my nostalgic side is skilled in the art of war...and guilt...and weepy histrionics over days gone by.

Case in point: My high school jacket with the letter I earned for winning at the district level in the one act play competition. It sits in a closet and is never worn. I can’t imagine a moment when I might need it. By all rights, it should be on its way to the thrift store. Of course, when I tried to send it there, the jacket looked at me in all its black and gold glory and said, “How can you even think of letting me go? You earned me! You acted your heart out in a male role because Shakespeare was a misogynist and only put three women in that play. Audiences laughed. They cried. They got extra credit in their English classes! Don’t do it, Sarah.”

The jacket is now boxed, saved less by its pleas for leniency than by my daughter’s hopes for a future Halloween costume. The experience left my practical side beaten and dazed for a moment, but it quickly rallied with a coup that was part ninja stealth, part girly cat fight.

A framed certificate from the International Thespian Society was the first thing to go. It was followed in quick succession by my solo/ensemble medals, two stuffed bears from Jr. High, a heart-shaped wall hanging I've kept in order to avoid offending someone I don't even like (did I type that out loud?), and about 10 years worth of unused scented candles that cause allergic reactions of epic proportions but are too sad looking to regift.

Then there was the closet full of clothes that haven’t fit me in years. Yeah, I’m that woman. I freely admit it. The eternal optimist in me says that I absolutely could fit into those clothes again if I really applied myself and found my motivation. The realist in me knows that I’ll never be motivated by clothes that are so out of style I wouldn’t wear them if I lost 100 pounds tomorrow. I’m no fashion plate by any means, but even I know the floral print dress with the puffy sleeves has seen better days. I didn't even send these fashion travesties to the thrift store. It was like "The Sound of Music" in my bedroom: "The poor didn't want these."

I'm hoping this skirmish between cluttery nostalgia and practicality bodes of good things in my future. I have no desire to descend back into packrat chaos in my new home. From now on, if I don't need it, I won't keep it. Period.

Of course, there will be a loophole in my new packrat free existence for wedding related nostalgia...