The babies have had croup, and I have had the adult version of croup, and everyone is very tired. So it’s the optimal time to create a spreadsheet of all the things I need to get rid of in a house that is rapidly filling up and oppressing the hell out of me. Unlike the first time I was pregnant, rather than wanting to make lots of little useless but adorable things, this time I want to Burn it All.
I guess it started with moving Bunlet to the guest room and the knowledge that someday Bunter will need a bedroom, too (though as of this morning, anyway, Bun Bun suggests that she and Bunlet and Bunter all share a bed). We are going to have to rejigger the spaces in our home such that more of them are dedicated to children. But it’s also been brewing for a while, because we’ve lived here almost 10 years, and THINGS have accumulated. I know getting rid of them won’t make me into a person who doesn’t buy things she doesn’t need. I can’t erase them–they will be sitting in a landfill or where ever till long after my grandchildren are dead and it will be my fault for not being more thoughtful. But…I still don’t want them in my house.
The problem isn’t so much that I don’t know what to do. I mean…spreadsheet. It lists all the things and the solutions for the things. E.g., for the fifty thousand broken printers and dead keyboards and suchlike, my campus has an e-cycling program, so all I have to do is get them to campus and arrange a pickup. The problem is time, and physical strength, and needing my spouse’s buy-in. I can’t move a sofa by myself.
But I hesitate to unleash my madness on him. He very much dislikes my decluttering phases and meets them with exasperated hostility. I observe that his mother’s house is packed to the gills with horrifying, mouldering CRAP…perhaps it’s familial. Or more likely he just has a different setting for what constitutes clutter, which is valid. Or even more likely he just doesn’t want to spend his time on it, because he has very little time that belongs to him. And there’s the fact that I just got rid of all our baby stuff. Which it turns out we needed. So I feel like a natural reaction on his part might be to balk at getting rid of anything again ever.
Though I contend that the mistake was not that we got rid of the baby stuff. It was failing to use birth control.
When the babies get out their scissors and cut thousands of sheets of paper into billions of microscopic pieces they then feel overwhelmed at the prospect of cleaning it all up and cry. WE CAN’T, they say. Yes, you can, I reply. You just have to start.
I guess I just have to start.