Clothes. That might be a factor. But I live in the armpit of America. I guess that's not really true. If you were to look at a map of the United States, it looks way more like New Jersey is. I'm not passing judgement. I'm just saying that if you imagine that that's an arm stretching away from the body that is the rest of the country, New Jersey is square in the middle of the armpit. Anyway, as of right now, on this the 23rd day of January, 2014, with a high of 12 degrees, Cincinnati is a special kind of arctic freezer hell of an armpit. And I need a dizzying array of different kinds of clothes to attire the people I am responsible for. There are the days that it starts out super chilly and ends up warm. There are the days that start out cold and turn polar. There is the summer that gets so hot that I get very very pro-nudist colony and then there are days like this where I can't figure out how to add one more layer and still be able to move around. And then decide that moving around is overrated. I have no sooner put one "season" of clothing away than I have to turn around and pull it all back out. On top of that, there is the stain spectrum to factor in.
Back in the day, people bought nice school clothes. When you outgrew them or they became stained, those school clothes became your play clothes. Clothes got passed down from one kid to the next ad infinitum. I have no firsthand knowledge of any of that. I only know that from various comedy routines I've watched or listened to. I am an only child. I didn't get clothes passed to me and I didn't pass mine on to anyone. That I'm aware of. So now, I'm stuck trying to figure out which stains are 1. treatable 2. passable 3. acceptable 4. too gross to speculate on. I will share this little nugget of wisdom regarding stinks, stanks and stains. I use vinegar when doing laundry. I occasionally use baking soda when doing laundry. I do not recommend combining the two when trying to fight off the mighty "this sat in the washer too dang long because I was done doing laundry for the day and didn't want to admit it" mildew smell. There is a reason that they use the two together to make volcanoes. I will not divulge how long it took me to figure out how all my clothes kept getting holes in them. I may have speculated about a moth infestation for a while... So to recap, I need clothes to accommodate "global warming" (which, whether it's a real thing or not, doesn't feel much warmer, especially right about EVERY STINKING WINTER, nor does it feel milder right about EVERY STINKING SUMMER) as well as to convince teachers that my children do not live in a hovel despite how their hair might look. We have lots of clothes. I miss garanimals. 4 bottoms, 8 tops, 6 people (that's right. In my ideal world, they would have sizes all the way up to the hubs), 4 times a year. I think I just hit nirvana.
Paper. What paper do you keep? I try, TRY to be discerning about the piles of school art and writing practices and math sheets and blah blah blah. I have 4 children bringing home this stuff. At this stage of the game it's in bins and boxes and on top of shelves and on and on. And honestly, as I go through some of it, I can't remember a thing about it. Without a name or some sort of teacher inscribed clue as to what it is supposed to be, I'm stumped. And yet, still paralyzed at the thought of trashing it. And honestly, the stuff that I already earmarked as so precious and so dear is getting crumpled and ruined under the weight of the rest. Next we have to discuss receipts and coupons and action files and to be filed and warranties and instructions and to do lists and and and and and.... Hubs would be thrilled to have not one piece of paper in our home. He would love if every thing could be digitized and summed up on an iGadget of some sort. Books, calendars, lists, correspondence, all of it. Hubs would say there are literal mountains of paper hanging out here. I think he has a loose definition of altitude. I'll give him bigger than a mole hill. Like, if you took the paper out of our house and just started stacking it up next to our house, I don't think it would be as tall as our house. But if you did do that, could you carefully light it on fire so that I could finally be rid of it?
Crap. That's all. Just... crap. It's my husband's favorite way of categorizing the contents of our home. Although, it is generally referred to as "your crap". I'm the your in this case. When we were first married, there was his crap and there was my crap. I had way more crap. It's fair to say that he was confused, frustrated and cautious about it. He didn't have permission to get rid of it. He didn't understand most of it. It was definitely in his way. So, 15 years and 5 kids later, it's done being my crap. Even if I did the purchasing of 90% of it, it's still ours. He'd have to fight me over it in court if it came down to it. Although, he would be fighting to make me keep it so he didn't have to pick it up anymore. But since we aren't ever going to court and he is stuck with me for life, it is OUR crap. And yes, I'd like to stop calling it crap. But the reality is that that is the very problem with all of this. We have a bunch of non-specific stuff that no one wants to be responsible for and no one wants to take lead and get rid of. Much like literal crap. It's spilling out of every room and growing exponentially. Thankfully, not at all like literal crap.
So, now I'm bonkers. The past 2-3 months have been a holding pattern. We have been in a state of flux waiting for some one thing to happen or get done happening. Holidays, a two week vacation, an impossible work deadline, a student coming to live with us, a student leaving us, getting really sick, exams, depression lifting, paying the last check on a three year financial commitment to our church. Yes. That's life. I get it. Remember that stress test that you would take to assess your level stress? High. Really, really High. For months now. And I'm finally feeling like I see light. So, now what do I do? The to-do list makes me speechless. The what. The how. The where do I even begin?
It is so hard to know what you want for myself, for my family and not having the anything at all in me to do it. I am a pack-rat. I assign value where there is none. I have belly casts of my last three pregnancies. Know what I want to do with them? Nothing. Know what I should do with them? Me neither. Because you and I both know that throwing them in the trash is out of the question. I have bedroom that has imploded because all my scrapbooking stuff came to live there while we made room for the gaming to be done upstairs so that hubs could watch football on his own t.v. for the love. In order to clean my bedroom, I have to assign a place for my craftiness. I think I know this space but before I can put the craftiness in, I have to remove the bins of memories that I can't remember. There are seriously 15 prequels to any given situation that I need to address in my home. "But before that" should be the name of my house. Fancy people name their homes. I have been fancy a couple of times in my whole life so, I'm naming my house. From now on, all invitations will read: Please join us at But Before That at the corner of Awesome and Bombdiggity for high tea. Formal attire is required.
One of the mantras I have created for myself is "What's next?". I can't do tomorrow. I can't do next year. I can do now. I can think of what's next. That's it. Beyond that and I'm encroaching on God territory. Right now, I'm writing this. Next, I'm crawling back into bed. After that? I don't know because I'm just writing this and then next is bed. My kids HATE this mantra. If there was a word stronger than hate, they would that. When we are in the car, they often want to call dibs on an activity or food. Can we have hot cocoa when we get home? Bad example. In this tundra, the answer is just yes. Mom, when we get home can I play xbox? I don't know. Right now I'm just driving home. What's next keeps me in this moment. It means that I have to experience all of it so I can know what might be next. I have to pay attention to my surroundings. I'm eating breakfast and this kitchen is a mess. What's next is crawling back into bed. No, that's not right. Next is cleaning it. Of course it is. I have to listen to my children. What's next is giving them a time-out for what they just said to me. No, wait. Next is engaging them with questions or something to do. It's not easy. Like what I said before, just there in the paragraph directly above this one, about how I don't even know what's before so I can't know what's next. Working backwards to be able to move forward - well, I thought that was only for therapy but I guess it applies to tangible life as well.
There is another layer of "What's next?" It's hope. It's an openness to possibility. It could sound like desperation or resignation as in "Great! That's just great! First the washing machine, then the sliding back door! What's next?". But I would rather be looking forward to what could be in store. Hey God. This has been a pretty interesting, confusing, brutiful journey thus far. You rock out loud and only want the best for me. So, what's next? Ohhhhh right.
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