Happy and Messy

Not my house. Because you knew I wasn't posting that on here, right? 

“So what do Mom and Dad say about us, then? Our family?” I ask my sister. We’re talking about our parents and their opinions about everybody in the family again, and I start to wonder what they’ve said about me. “Oh, you? They don’t have to worry about you.  They say you’re happy. Happy and messy.” I guess that’s about right. We are happy. And no denying it. We’re messy.

And I guess I wouldn’t prefer sad and neat. Cold and efficient. No, that’s not how I want my life to be.

But I wish I wasn’t so messy. I wish I could transform my space into the pictures I see in magazines, the spaces that so many of my friends have, the ones you, readers, probably have…where there are not toys all over the place, big plastic boxes in the hallway because I need to readjust my storage space in the garage to make room, cluttered mountains wherever there used to be surfaces, miles of laundry piled everywhere. I think I remember, when we moved into this house, that there used to be some counter space.  I wish I didn’t run out of room in my drawers, then start storing clean, folded clothes on top of the dresser, that every flat surface didn’t become a clutter magnet, that any spot in any drawer wouldn’t end up full of something, bulging, stretched until I need a bigger space. I wish I automatically cleaned things up—the kitchen, the laundry—without getting sidetracked and getting behind on everything.

I wish that when somebody called to say they were dropping something off at my house, I didn’t immediately respond with heart palpitations, anxiety, and self-loathing. Seriously—if you want to drop by, you really need to give me a week’s notice, or just pretend you’re in a hurry and have to leave it at the end of my driveway. Because no matter what, I’m going to be totally mortified that you’ve seen our mess and my inability to take control of it.

My house needs to go on a diet. I’ve never watched the show Hoarders because I’m afraid it will hurt my feelings, so please…in the comments…please, please don’t mention Hoarders. I don’t watch it because I am hoping that my space doesn’t belong on it. And if it does, I certainly don’t want to know about it. And know that there aren’t gross things in my house like I hear about on that show...Rat feces, bugs, that sort of thing. There may be more dirt than I'd like, but there are no infestations of anything, although people do keep holding the door open and letting flies in lately. It’s just that that sitting in a room in my house might give you a headache because we have too much stuff for the amount of room allotted to us in our little house.

Right now, while typing this, I’m worrying about the comments. And about what you’re thinking about me. I so want to hide my mess. If you are judging me for this description of my mess, please don’t post it here. Just lie to me and tell me your house is messy, too. Because it’s an emotional issue for me, and sending me to a personal organizer is not enough to fix it. And I’m already a Fly Lady failure. I mean, my sink isn’t even shiny now. And today’s Saturday. I have absolutely no excuse. A shrink? More likely to help, but only after years of sessions.  

My dad’s solution was to build extra storage buildings for his excessive stuff. He went so far as to measure the plastic boxes and build shelves tailor-made to fit those plastic boxes. Somehow, if you organize the ridiculous things you choose to keep forever, it makes things seem better, I guess.

But I don’t want to build new buildings to store more plastic boxes. Not ever.

I look through my girls’ books on their bookshelf. Get rid of some of these, I say. Then they pull out a book and toss it carelessly to the side, and my heart breaks. I remember holding Rosemary, pudgy, big-cheeked, squeezable, lovable, big-eyed, curious, golden-haired Rosemary, while we flipped those pages. We flipped those same pages hundreds of times. I can’t let go of that book. She’s tossing it to the side, ready to let go—and I want to hold on. Forever.  Not that one! Oh, and not the other one over there, either. I remember that one, too…But there’s no more room on our bookshelves, Mama, she says. 

I want to make room. There has to be room. So I stack it horizontally, across the other books. There’s space up there. I can fit this book if I put it that way.

Once, I let her fill a box and I gave those books away. I didn’t let myself look in the box. And I still worry about those books, and if any of them were ones that were really special.

So I’m happy and messy. But not really happy about the mess. And not ready to give up the mess, either.

How do you manage your emotional ties to things?

photo credit: sindesign via photopin cc

A Change of Clothes

When I got to my sister's house in Tennessee, Meredith, her two year old, ran by me on tiptoe, wearing the same dress that both of my two little girls wore at that age. 

I have memories of them wearing that dress all the time; it had dark blue, pink, and yellow stripes and a hood in back. It was made of a stretchy, knitted cotton material and it had polka-dotted ruffles on the bottom of the skirt. When it was cold outside, or sprinkling, or the wind was whipping hard, both my girls would pull the hood over their heads and try to tell me they didn't need a coat--because this dress had a hood. It was one of those articles of clothing that becomes familiar because it was loved so much by the person wearing it. Both girls thought it was the most comfy play dress ever. 

We'd passed the clothes down, and now it is Meredith's turn to be two and wear that dress. She has dark brown hair, and my girls are blonde. But it didn't matter. Every time she tiptoed by in that dress, barefooted and bare legged, I was me again when they were two. I was looking at Meredith, but I was seeing little Rosemary, little Olivia. And they're cousins. They share the same big eyes, she has the same little sausage arms and legs that my girls had when they were two. Her hair is the same length my girls' hair was when they were two. Even her mannerisms are similar to my girls' when they were two. 

It was a strange, weird feeling. 

It was time travel. It was me, instantly transported to a different period in my life, me re-feeling the gush of love for a two year old and the stresses of parenting a little monkey all over again, all of the feelings happening before I'd given myself permission to feel them. Then, time travel again, something happening to jar me into the present--a realization, a remembering that those times are gone, that I'm in a new reality, that so much has passed, even when there is so much to come, even when there are so many more memories to make. 

I wonder if that's how it feels when you're a grandparent--you see the features that belong on your little girl, your little boy, but the child in front of you is actually your child's child. You see your child's movements, but the person in front of you is not fully your child.

How strange.

Dresses have been a theme for me for a couple days now. That feeling that comes from the passing down of clothes has happened more than once this week.

While we were packing for our big trip to visit my sister, I went on a mission to find a swimsuit for Olivia in our garage. I lugged out the two huge plastic boxes full of clothes--the clothes that Rosemary outgrew 3 years ago. I didn't find the swimsuit, but I did find loads of clothes that Olivia wanted to go through all morning while I was trying to pack. 

Today, finally, I let her put on one of those beloved dresses--a dress Rosemary cherished, loved with the kind of intense love a child can attach to a precious thing that she'll eventually leave behind. It was another play dress, stretchy fabric, pink and black paisley, ruffles. But, of course, very grown up, if you're 4. 

When Olivia put on that dress today, I had the same feeling I had when I saw Meredith in the dress at my sister's house. I was seeing Rosemary again at her younger age. Her movements, her expressions. And then that jolt again--this was my other child and it was time to say goodbye to that old vision of Rosemary. It's time to embrace this new, older version of my youngest teeny tiny baby...

Because my babies are still babies, will always be babies--but they just look and act different now, older. They're both older. 

 

It's one thing to time travel by holding up baby clothes and say, "Oh, look how little you used to be." But it's entirely a different experience to look at someone wearing those clothes and see a clone of your baby. And still different to realize that the clone of your baby isn't a clone at all, but that it's all an illusion that is happening only in your own mind. Because your second baby is her own person, too.

Has anyone else experienced this strange feeling when passing down hand-me-downs?