I was wrong

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I’ve had a line for ages–a joke, really, but I sort of believed it–that “you can never have too many Legos.”  Art supplies and Legos were two categories I truly didn’t mind drowning in.  I’m quite organized and have stayed on top of both for years now, in spite of the constant influx of more.

But I was wrong.

The art supplies are still manageable, although as my kids have gotten older the things are migrating up to bedrooms.  (As old as my kids are now, I don’t feel the need to constantly supervise crayons and markers…I can trust them not to draw on walls.)  The Legos, however….I think we’ve crossed a line.

My son has a tall bookcase in his room that I put in there specifically to display his Lego “stuff.”  It was arranged beautifully for a long time, but Legos (of course) are meant to be played with, and piece by piece would be taken off the shelf to be used.  Good!  I’m all for things being used.  Since the dining room table is our normal “Lego play area,” the pieces appeared on it to play with.  Then my daughter’s Legos arrived, apparently hungry for company, and the kids spent many afternoons during the summer playing Legos in the dining room together.  (Full disclosure:  the dining room table is Lego-covered 90% of the time, until the birthday/holiday season arrives and we need the dining room quite often.  My kitchen table, however, is always empty.  Thank you very much.)

Unfortunately….while the Legos were spreading out all over the dining room table, and buckets were appearing in the corner of that room, they were also still upstairs, spreading out all over my son’s bookcase.  (Is there a law of physics somewhere, about objects expanding to fill the allotted space?)  They were also spreading out into one corner of his bedroom; which unfortunately is the corner behind the laundry basket, which is making life difficult on a fairly regular basis.

So this morning, when I started putting Legos back in his room (there was so much stuff I split the job with him), I had nowhere to put them.  Nowhere.  The shelves of the bookcase appeared full, although lots of scooting things around freed up some space.  The buckets in the corner of his room are being stacked upon, which I guarantee is going to end badly.  I have absolutely no idea where he’s going to put the things I left for him to put away.

When we’d started tackling the table last night, I mentioned that he might have, maybe, too many Legos.  And he agreed with me.  (You know it’s bad when the kid agrees with you.)  I broached the subject of giving some away, especially since we are headed into birthday season and there will most likely be even more Legos in his future.  And he agreed with me.  (Pick jaw up off floor.)  His comment?  “We could give them to the library.  They’re looking for Legos for their Lego club.”  (Sit down before I start hyperventilating.)

If he is on board, I am happy to help.  Hopefully sometime during the next week, we’ll go through all this stuff–a shelf at a time, a bin at a time, or ten minutes at a time.  I don’t know how long his willingness to pass things on will last, but I hope to make the most of it.

FYI…my dining room table is beautiful.  It’s so nice to see it again.   🙂

And then there were none….

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The house is officially empty.

I wrote months ago about the loss of our sweet teddy bear of a Bernese Mountain dog, and now our crazy Australian Shepherd is gone, too.  Losing two dogs in less than nine months is not an experience I wish for anyone.  While it was hard to lose one, it’s much, much more noticable to have lost both.

I still listen for the jingle of tags everytime I come home.

I still check to see where he’s laying, as I’m carrying baskets full of laundry to and fro.

I still come downstairs in the morning ready to let a dog out.

I still anticipate barking when the doorbell rings.

I still–embarrassingly–have a bowl of dog water sitting in the corner of the kitchen.

I’m trying to focus on the positive…the freedom of not having an animal to board let our family go out of town last weekend, last-minute.

I can sleep in a little on Saturdays, not worrying about the dog needing to go out.

I can vacuum, and the floor won’t be covered in dog fur less than twenty-four hours later.

I can let people in without a “just a minute, I have to put the dog out,” everytime someone comes over (he wasn’t a fan of strangers).

I know he was sick, and I know it was time, but I’ll miss the knowing smiles from the vet’s office every time we’d bring him in:  “Oh, yes…we remember Bo.”  (Translated:  The only dog to bite the vet through a muzzle.)  I’ll miss him “herding” the kids to bed every night; he took his job very seriously.  I’ll miss him curled up next to me on the sofa, his head in my lap.  I’ll miss his “wild man” craziness after his dinner every night.  I can’t imagine a more adventurous fourteen years with a dog….I know, without a doubt, we will never find a dog again with that much personality.  (Perhaps that’s for the best.  That much personality can be exhausting.)

We won’t be a dog-free home for long.  I made a comment about maybe waiting untill after the New Year before bringing one home, and my husband made it pretty clear that was not his plan.  Until then, I’m home in a very quiet house, without my shadow of a shepherd guiding me through my day.

What a bargain!

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I was scrolling through houses on the internet recently, as I am wont to do, and found an astounding price on a home a few miles north of us.  “Astounding” as in $100K cheaper than the other homes for sale in the neighborhood.  I assume it was a foreclosure, and as I scrolled through the photos, I was amazed at how genuinely beautiful the house still was–even with carpeting pulled up, and flooring missing in some rooms, you could see it was going to be a gorgeous home for someone; probably very soon.  Someone, somewhere, is about to get an amazing bargain.

I do wonder about the consequences of that choice, though.  If it’s a family who will slide right into the neighborhood effortlessly, or if it’s a family trying to reach up, just a bit, and finally score a house “in that neighborhood;” a house that would normally be out of reach but which suddenly is surprisingly achievable.  That house purchase could start the dominoes falling…

Now that they have a bigger house, in a nicer neighborhood, they have to furnish it, and fill those extra rooms they didn’t have before.  Then they’re sending their kids to school with other kids who are better off than they are, who have x and y and z, and suddenly they feel the need to get the same for their children.  Every day they’re surrounded by people who have “stuff” they don’t have, “stuff” they aren’t able to afford….but somehow that doesn’t stop them from buying it.

Maybe not.  Maybe the house will be filled with the “just-right” family; a perfect fit.  Or maybe it will be filled with a family who truly doesn’t care to keep up with the Joneses.  I just hope whoever moves in thinks through their decision.  It could be a really expensive bargain.

My new favorite question

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A friend posted a link on Facebook, and the title sucked me in:  Why We Love to Hoard.  It seemed like something right up my alley, so I read it (I encourage you to; it’s a really interesting read).

But towards the end the author wrote a sentence that completely changed how I’m clearing stuff out of our home:

“…for each item I ask myself a simple question: If I didn’t have this, how much effort would I put in to obtain it?”

Wow.  That is the question, isn’t it?  All those things I’m keeping “just in case,” or “for later,” or “for someday”….if I didn’t already have it, would I ever go looking for it?  I’m seeing everything in my home with new eyes.  And it works both ways:  there are some things that are suddenly totally justifiable to me, because yes, I’d go out and buy them again in a heartbeat.  I would buy this again.  Or, the irreplaceable mementos of grandparents; the things you can’t just go out and “buy again” because they don’t exist anymore:  the “keep the quilts that great-grandma made” kind of items.  

Others, though…yeesh.  It feels like I need to go back through the house yet again, from top to bottom, and just weed.  Because heaven knows that there are dozens of things lurking in this home that I would never in a million years actively seek out to “obtain” again.

“Why do we buy movies?”

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Every great once in a while, my son does or says something that makes me think I might be getting through to him.

He recently plowed through his piles of drawings, and all the ones he wanted to keep are now neatly three-hole-punched and gathered together in a binder.  He then tossed the ones he didn’t want into the recycling bin.  That’s huge.  (I don’t think I can stress enough….that’s huge.)

When he came home from a shopping trip with Grammy three T-shirts richer, I informed him that he had to get rid of three he already had.  Which he did–without protest.  (Again….huge.)

The funniest part, though, was a conversation we had in the car as we drove by a video store.  “Mom?” he asked thoughtfully.  “Why do we buy movies?”

He then went on to explain his train of thought:  we always check them out from the library, or we might go to a Redbox or video store (actually, I can’t remember the last time I set foot in a video store), or we record things on the DVR….but why do people bother to buy movies?

That’s a really good question, kiddo….

My response?  “Well, I think they just make really easy gifts.”

I looked through the movies on our shelves (we have 99 DVD’s right now, 76 of which are actually movies*), and they seem to be full of still-wrapped-in-plastic “hey, he really liked this movie–I’ll get it for him for Christmas!” types of things.  Secret Santa gifts from coworkers; birthday gifts from people who don’t know you well enough to know what you really might want….a movie is a safe, easy gift idea.  And we have two shelves full of them.

I’m fairly certain I know what’s next on my list to weed through….

 

 

*What else could there be, you ask?  TV series collections and DVD’s of concerts.  The concerts, I’m quite sure, are staying.  🙂

It doesn’t have to be perfect….

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A few weeks ago I wallpapered the lower part of our front hallway.  I love the paper, I love how it looks, and I especially love that my front hall no longer greets people with an icky brown color.

That being said…

I’d struggled with one sheet–just one–in trying to keep the edges from curling up.  I don’t know why one gave me problems and the rest of the hall went fine, but one sheet was being difficult, and when it was all done and dried, there was a gap.

The gap, mind you, is probably less than an eighth of an inch wide, in-between two sheets of plaid wallpaper.  If you’re not looking for it, you’re not going to see it.  I was fussing over it, though, the day after I’d finished the work; about why that piece was so difficult and everything else went fine…. and my daughter looked at me and informed me, very seriously, “Mommy!  It doesn’t have to be perfect!”

I am so, so thankful, that out of all the things she’s heard me say to her in her short life, that was one that stuck with her.  As often as I’ve said it to her, you’d think I might listen myself.

Basement progress

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Apparently, kids in school all day = official basement clean-out time.

I’ve worked a bit these past few days, ducking downstairs between grocery trips and volunteering in the school library and all the various other things that have to be done.  In the past, I’ve been horrible about procrastinating:  I would work and box things up or bag things up and there they would sit, for months; ready to go out the door and yet still sitting on the basement floor.  So my rule for this round of work was to get it in my car.

Day one, I told myself that all I really wanted was to be able to have a clear workbench:  once I had an empty surface on top of my workbench, I could stop.  Once I had that space, though, I wanted to keep going, at least a little.

Day two, I was a bit more vague, but my goal was to have the main area of floor empty.  The entire center of the room, empty.  And that little taste of space, foot by foot, encouraged me to keep working until it was done.

Two trips to Goodwill, one with a trunkful and one with a trunk FULL–plus backseat full–of “stuff” really can make a difference.  The room feels like it weighs less.  I still have an ugly pile on one side of the room, but the change in feeling when you walk in that door is amazing.  I can breathe again…the walls aren’t closing in; instead there’s space and room to roam.  (Well… as much as you can roam in a 11×14 foot storage area.)

Next week I’ll tackle the last pile, and over the next few months it’s time to seriously evaluate the tubs of “seasonal storage.”  In my opinion, seasonal stuff is what basement storage is for, but the amount of tubs we have down there (regardless of how neatly lined up against the wall) is a bit ridiculous.  As I pull things out for fall and Christmas, it’s time to cull.

Pillow problems

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I’m laughing, because I just read a blog post about tossing throw pillows, and I just got new ones.  🙂

The author looks at her pillows through William Morris’ quote:  “Have nothing in your home that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful.”  For her, the pillows fit neither criteria.  In our home, however, throw pillows are useful.  Back support in our chairs, propping laptops and books in laps, cozying kids up; especially poor, sick kids, camped out in the living room.  We use those throw pillows; good grief, even the dog uses our throw pillows.  They were so loved and well-used that they needed to be replaced.  They were useful, maybe, but definitely not beautiful.  (You can only wash pillows so many times….)

So I have two sets of two pillows sitting in my laundry room right now (happy birthday to me!).  And I am typing this on a laptop that sits on an old pillow.

Why?

Because they’re new and fresh and clean and too pretty to use.

Yes, even after I wrote an entire post devoted to the idea of “too” stuff, how everything in our house gets used, how we don’t have anything “too” nice or “too” fragile to be used… In the house where I just pulled out my grandmother’s cranberry glassware bowls to use everyday, because they’re a perfect size and why buy new ones if we have ones that work…. I have four pillows stacked neatly, waiting.  Just…waiting.

Time to go get the pillows.  The useful, beautiful pillows.

“Take an offering for the Lord”

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“And the people continued to bring freewill offerings morning after morning.  So all the skilled craftsmen who were doing all the work on the sanctuary left their work and said to Moses, ‘The people are bringing more than enough for doing the work the Lord commanded to be done.’  Then Moses gave an order and they sent this word throughout the camp:  ‘No man or woman is to make anything else as an offering for the sanctuary.’  And so the people were restrained from bringing more, because what they already had was more than enough to do all the work.”  –Exodus 36:3-7

I was overwhelmed by these words in Exodus recently, as Moses led the building of the tabernacle.  Can you imagine being a part of a group who just kept giving?  Who had to be restrained from continuing to give?  Who wanted so much to be a blessing to the Lord that they gave, morning after morning?

My Bible commentary reminded me:  Exodus 35:5 states “From what you have, take an offering for the Lord” (emphasis mine).  “We sometimes dream of what we would give to God if we were wealthy.  Moses’ instructions to Israel are a healthy reminder.  We can give only from what we have.  When we give willingly, we please God and find joy in giving…Today too, if all would give of what they have, there would be more than enough to do all God commands” (The Bible Reader’s Companion, by Lawrence O. Richards).

More than enough, if we all would give of what we had.

“What’s THAT room for?”

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My daughter had a friend over to play recently, and this was the question shyly asked about our fourth bedroom upstairs.

I had to laugh, because looking in the room, it was a completely fair question.  I explained that the room used to be an office, and now we were turning it into a bedroom (for our eventual adoption), so right now it was sort of “in-between.”  It was an honest description of the situation.  That being said, it’s been an “in-between” room for a really, really long time.

There are remnants of “office” in there:  a (completely empty) computer armoire, one kitchen chair used for a computer chair, a rocking chair, and a side table.  There’s also a child’s desk and a doll’s “baby care center,” pulled from bedrooms to go to the basement playroom, but somehow stalled out upstairs.  There’s also our stepladder.  At some point, I needed the stepladder upstairs to do something, but it was so long ago I actually don’t remember what it was.  (I’ve seriously thought about this for three days…I have no idea why that stupid thing is up there, it was that long ago.)

Admittedly, lots of things are “trapped” because I need help moving them down the stairs (even the child’s desk I’m not too keen on tackling by myself).  But the room has been in transition for so long that I’ve reached the point of absolutely no excuses.  I won’t even mention the file cabinet and stacks of papers in the closet….

It’s hard to commit myself to working in the room; the uncertainty of what to expect weighs on me as I think about getting started.  Who are we getting the room ready for?  Boy or girl?  How many?  How old?  What will they need?  Instead of anticipation, it’s a feeling of almost frustration–why am I cleaning this out now?  It almost seems like it would be easier to wait:  wait until we could be getting a room “ready for someone,” instead of simply “cleaning it out.”  Building on an attitude of excitement, instead of simply the reality of the unknown.

But here’s the thing:  I know, without a doubt, one thing any child will need will be an EMPTY ROOM.  A room standing ready; able to be filled with them and their things.  Wouldn’t it be easier, wouldn’t it be so much less stressful, to start moving forward on a child (or children) feeling like we’re ready to welcome them in; into a room completely cleared of everything and ready to make their own?

Maybe, just maybe, the next time someone asks me “what’s that room for?” it will be because it’s empty; ready to be filled.