My home is undergoing a weight loss plan: it’s time for the springtime purge.
Today, I combed through the basement, enlisting the boys in the task. They were delighted by the honor, since they call that half of the basement “The Secret Room.”
It’s a veritable plethora of treasures.
Christmas lives in that room, stacked neatly against one wall. All my seasonal belongings, really. Apparently, I like wreaths.
In today’s sort and purge, I encountered
approximately 47 wicker baskets,
Robb’s collection of 1980s Christian Contemporary CDs,
boxes and boxes (and boxes and boxes) of teaching materials, books, and manipulatives,
a dog crate,
a full ensemble of ski sportswear, should I ever choose to give the slopes a try,
his and hers rollerblades (with matching knee pads and elbow pads),
enough camping equipment to make you think we don’t own a home,
the puffy, fluffy crenoline slip I wore underneath my wedding dress,
a Diaper Genie,
a handbook on armed weaponry that Robb was apparently secretly studying in his spare time,
two roll-along totes filled to the gills with scrapbook supplies,
and seating for 31.
I collect chairs. I learned this about myself today.
Ruthlessly, I made bold decisions about what would stay, what needed to move on.
The CDs left.
The crenoline stayed.
The Diaper Genie left.
The chairs stayed.
By these decisions, you can deduce that everyone in my house is potty trained;
I have little interest in Petra;
I am not yet ready to part with the attire from my wedding;
and it seems I’m planning to throw some big-ass party where there could be nothing worse than a lack of seating.
Tucker was intensely helpful. He even helped me carry a mattress and box springs up the stairs. (I taught him the family rule: You have to laugh when you carry a mattress. Have to.)
He made four dozen trips up and down those flights of stairs. Such a trooper, my right hand man.
Tyler busied himself blowing bubbles, building a train set, blowing up farty-party balloons, unrolling and unpacking his sleeping bag, and begging me to keep anything that held any memory of his younger days.
His help was relative.
I have to remind myself: they are almost-seven and just-turned five. That’s a big window, a span that’s very different from four and six. Their skills, attention span, and life perspectives are just wildly different.
But there could be one other factor in play.
Whose husband was it… let me see here… whose husband was it who woke up every blessed Saturday morning with a plan to plow his way through a to-do list?
Whose husband was it who practiced efficiency and productivity as hobbies?
Whose husband was it who was gifted in serving, loved to get his hands dirty with a hard day’s work, and never could really get his wife on board with sweat, dirt, or dust?
In such projects of manual labor, his wife was – at worst – missing in action, and – at best – distracted by the rediscovery old high school yearbooks.
It’s entirely possible that Tyler’s preferences have nothing to do with him being technically a preschooler.
It’s quite probable that he simply takes after me and my work ethic.
Good luck to you, Tuck.
You’ve got your hands full with both of us.
Your dad sure did.