Spring Cleaning

My house is starting to look like one from an episode of Hoarders. Well, maybe that's not completely true. We can still walk through it pretty easily, although I wonder how the girl child gets her closet door open sometimes. I like to blame the rest of the family for the hoarding behavior, but it's not completely their fault. However, I would definitely say that they are not blameless. We all like to hang on to stuff, and it seems like the more space we have, the more we fill. I would venture a guess that we are not alone in this, but I did feel a bit uncomfortable when one of the moms from school came by a few years back to pick something up and the first words out of her mouth were, "You sure have a lot of stuff." Well yes, we do.

March is time for "spring cleaning," although it seems like a misnomer when the weather report calls for snow. I have taken the week off from work, and between observing all of the holidays that will take place I plan on spending some quality time with the children, sorting out the house. I began this endeavor during my break between Christmas and the New Year. I did not get very far. I do not believe that the children are looking forward to this spring cleaning extravaganza with as much enthusiasm as I am. I can't imagine why not. But the husband has given me free rein to get rid of anything I want. I don't believe that he is being completely honest here, but I am willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. We'll see how that goes.

One of my first projects will be to clean out our storage closet. It is a long, narrow, walk-in, and at the far end is the area the girl child calls "the vault." Hanging bags are filled with some very hip outfits from the ’60s and ’70s, previously worn by the grandma, my mother. There are even some very small articles of clothing worn by the tiny, childhood me. Did I happen to mention that the house we live in is the house I grew up in? It is. We rearranged and renovated, trying to make it as much our own as possible, but instead of getting just a house, we got rooms filled with boxes and bags and shelves of memories. Some of these we gave away or sold, but others still remain.

I had sorted the storage closet when we first moved in, labeling bins full of art supplies and photographs, and memory boxes for each child. Drawers were filled with my old yearbooks and scrapbooks that date back to my childhood. Even before the boy child could talk, I began filling a big, plastic bin with items that might be used for future school projects. The bins were full of oddly shaped styrofoam pieces, scoops from baby formula, cardboard trays from vegetables, silver mylar balloons. By the time the girl child entered third grade we had the makings of the best diorama or science project or history project ever. You need a satellite dish? Well, that miniature plastic champagne glass will do quite nicely, thank you very much.

Sometimes I envy my friends that have an easy time parting with possessions. Obviously, I do not, and those I have parted with I often regret, looking back and wishing that I hadn't let them go. I have one friend who would cull her childrens' toys every few months, keeping the number small and age appropriate. I still feel guilty about getting rid of the wooden building blocks—the kids said they would have played with them a few more years. They would probably still be playing with them now. These children, they are not helpful. Another friend regularly has yard sales and rakes in the bucks, although I believe that his family has taken to hiding their most prized possessions to keep from finding a favored pillow pet out on a folding table on the driveway. Both of their homes are free of clutter, however, which I cannot particularly say of my own, and although I have tried to emulate both of them at various times, I have failed epically.

Some may say that we have too many books. Is it possible to have too many books? We are a family of readers. The husband and I have each worked in publishing for over twenty-five years, but even before I worked in the industry I carried my books from place to place, college dorm room to apartment, apartment to house. I have books from my childhood, from my mother's childhood, from my father's high school days, from the husband's first days in this country, stamped with a book stamp that says: "This book belongs to 'the husband,'" or something to that effect. I don't want to give them up. The kids stack up books they no longer want to keep, but I put them aside. "You may want these later," I say. "You may want these for your children." Some of these books were not their favorites. But some of them were mine. I think that maybe these books will skip a generation. Maybe the boy grandchild or the girl grandchild will love them as much as I loved them. Or maybe not. It's hard to say. But where will I keep them? Should I let them go?

I have determined that wherever we live, our home will always seem like a too-small New York City apartment, furnished with items that are worn, yet comfortable. The girl child has mentioned that when she has a house, the rooms will have "themes." I think that she means that the furniture will match; the walls will be freshly painted a color that complements. As I've mentioned in the past, she is a rebel. I used to think that one day I would have grown-up things, that the hand-me-downs and furniture from IKEA and the old wooden chairs would be replaced, but I think that by now that moment has passed. I don't really mind. And there are days when I love the clutter, when I love to dress the girl child in an authentic skirt and jacket from the ’70s that we did not have to leave our home to find. I suppose that after this week, we may still have a lot of stuff. But maybe not as much as before. I hope.