Love My Moving Boxes

I did get some decluttering finished this week.  One of my piles that has been really bothering me is the stack of empty boxes in the sunroom.  When we moved in and started unpacking, we needed a place to put the now-naked boxes.  We weren't sure what we would be doing with the sunroom, so we stacked the boxes there.  Over time, the stacks moved to the end of the room, but they somehow stayed there.  And whenever we have an empty box, that's where it goes.  Occasionally, on recycle day, I go in and pull out random boxes: the oddly sized ones, or the yucky ones, or the beat-up ones.  I flattened out the poor box, cut it down, and put it in the recycle bin.  Good for me.

But there was always a pile of boxes there.  Always.  We stacked them up neatly to make it more tidy, but they didn't go away.  And it's been three years.  Most of the unpacking is done (and what's left should probably be given away - we haven't needed whatever it is).

I have realized that I must be a box hoarder.  I have kept the banana boxes because Trent likes them.  They are sturdy, stack well, have lids, and are uniform.  He likes to be efficient that way.  The cherry boxes are good for picking fruit.  The smaller cube-ish boxes might be good for organizing something.  Can't toss the shoe boxes because they are great to wrap presents in.  And the cardboard trays that a flat of canned goods come in - they might be helpful to make things with.  Dividers for the kitchen drawers, maybe?

My brother and sister-in-law just announced that they were moving.  I gulped, took advantage of an opportunity, and took them all my boxes.  I think there were about 50!  Fifty boxes!  They are great for... putting stuff in.  I'm glad she can use them, and I'm glad I don't have them!  Yay!  One corner decluttered.  It looks good.

I now love that part of my house that has been making me crazy.  I can do this.

Should I mention that later in the day, we went to the grocery store and picked up another dozen boxes?  Trent couldn't resist talking with the produce manager who was restocking bananas.  Fortunately, we moved those boxes out, too.  It was a close call, though!

Family Funnies

The kids are already getting older and already I miss all these times.  Love these children of mine!

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Freddie: little pig, little pig, let me in, not by chinny chinny

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Angel: please help us to dream about good cats and good dogs that they won't get run over by the bad cars and please bless that we will not dream about bad dogs and bad cats so they would get run over by vehicles.  We will send vehicles to all the bad cats and bad dogs.

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Mom: (late in the evening) Sorry we locked that door.  We thought you were coming in the other door.
Alec: I can get in anywhere.  That is the power of my keys!

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Ben, explaining why he wasn't going to tease his older brother, even though he would dearly love to:  but I probably shouldn't, because it would make him really mad.  (pause) But he's already mad anyway, (brightening) so I might as well!

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Georgie has a stutter now because his mind comes up with ideas so quickly that he can't come up with words fast enough.  Always saying Mom mom mom mom mom while his words try to catch up

My (Late) Husband

I like to be punctual.  My late (dead) husband liked to be early.  My current (live) husband is the late one.  I have clocks in every room, and swear by my watch.  Trent doesn't even wear one.  When we were dating, and time just seemed to fly away, I didn't realize that it wasn't the magic of the romance that made time stand still.  It is something about Trent.  He and time just don't get along, I guess.

In all fairness, I am often late even without him.  Getting this many kids going takes more time than I allot.  It's something I work hard on.  But being late just makes me crazy!  It's never worth it.

Trent and I went on a fancy date to a time-share sales presentation.  Woop.  Hafta get that "free" vacation prize they promise just for coming, of course.  We were running late - even without the children.  What a surprise.  I made him call the place, explain that we were running 7 minutes late, and ask if we would be denied admittance.  (Yes, it has happened before.  That's how I know.)  We were assured that as long as we were no more than 10 minutes late, everything would be fine.  We pulled up at 7 minutes late, and went in at 8 minutes late.

And they wouldn't let us in.  We were too late.  I raised my eyebrows at Trent in a "told you so" gesture, and he shrugged.  How he puts up with me so much I don't know!

But they gave us the restaurant gift card and the "free" vacation getaway prize anyway.  And we didn't have to listen to their sales pitch!  And we got to have a leisurely dinner out instead!  I'm delighted.  I detest sales pitches.  Trent loves them, but he's a great salesman, you know?

As we drove away, me happier than I thought I'd be, Trent turned to me and grinned.  "Sometimes it pays to be late, after all!"  Can't argue with the man.  Love my (late) husband!

This message was written with the express permission - and good humor - of said (late) husband.

Favorite Picture Book

This is my kids' favorite picture book.  It is very, very old (picture book life spans can be measured in months in a house with children).  Printed in 1961, it even has lovely duct tape holding it together.  I'm not sure where we got it, but we love The Littlest Rabbit.

It chronicles the story of a little bunny who wants to be bigger.

Can you blame him for not wanting to be small?  It's no fun to be picked on.

But in the end, everything is ok when you get bigger and take revenge on your tormentors.  This part makes my teens laugh and laugh - because it would so not be included in any books written today.

We may have to censor this totally not politically correct book.

Finding Mom's Journals

There is only one pillow in my dad's bed.  He sleeps on her side now.  The covers - two random blankets - look more bachelor-ish than the lovely color-coordinated bedspreads Mom used to pick out.  The bed is made, meticulously straight, showing years of training from Dad's German mother, and then reinforcement more from the army.  It makes a smooth work surface, for today we are sorting.

There are five white banker's boxes lined up across the middle of my dad's bed: one for me and each of my four brothers.  At the end of the bed are four more.  Dad's box is overflowing; Mom's is nearly full; the box for Dad's parents has half more to go, and the paperbox lid holds pictures and calendars from the family growing up.

Dad brings a large box from Mom's office, I pull out the comfortable chair for him to sit on, and we sort.  We smile and laugh and show each other the papers before filing them neatly in one of the boxes.  Dad lingers over old pictures then half turns, arms stretching out, before he pulls back and shakes his head.  "I want to show these to her, to say 'Remember this?'" he says sheepishly, "but I keep forgetting she's not there."  And then more quietly, "It seems like she should be."

When Jay died, there weren't an awful lot of things to go through.  Mom has boxes and boxes of papers.  I know she lived much longer, but I've come to realize that her papers are the memories of a mother:  stained recipes of family-friendly foods, yellowed newspaper clippings of her father, painted handprints of a toddler, Mother's Day cards from her grandchildren, an old construction paper love note from an adoring child, curls from the first haircut gently wrapped in a sandwich baggie.  This, mixed in with mortgage statements and old utility bills and fading pictures and organized binders of financial information.

The last few things in the box were three old binders.  The first contained notes from a college course she took - mimeographed outlines bleeding purple onto her scripted notes.  The second binder was part of a journal she wrote when she attended Girl's State in the early '60s.  But the third binder was the jackpot: several spiral-bound notebooks filled with Mom's college years.  They contained a daily record of her girlish dreams and activities, as well as her time living in Europe with her brother's family. 

Just opening the notebook to any random page lets me feel of Mom's love for life - although in a definitely more coquettish way than I, as a daughter, ever saw.  This entry, dated "May 5, Sunday," reads,

It's my anniversary - 2 years ago I received my first kiss.

The rest of the short record from that day include notes about five different boys.  Five!  And in the margin is scrawled, "Elaine thinks Eldon likes me." and "Eldon went with Jeff - I ironed his shirt."

Can't wait to read more and find Mom again!

My Soldier Boy

I've been thinking over this post for a couple of weeks now, and I haven't been sure where to start.

I love my country.  I am patriotic to the point of tears when Old Glory goes by at the beginning of a summer parade.  I choke up a bit when the Cub Scouts recite the Pledge of Allegiance.  I love watching my older boys post "the colors of the United States of America."  I've been wanting, for a while now, to build a flagpole in my front yard so we could fly the flag.

Now, I'm supporting my country in a way I never really considered.  Alec has joined the armed forces, as a member of the Army National Guard.

As a citizen, I'm as proud as can be.  As a mother... I dunno.  I'm torn.  What if he deploys?  What if he is in a dangerous situation?  What if he is injured?  What if he...?  This is my boy, for crying out loud!  My firstborn, the baby who made me a mother.  I see his dimple and see my little strawberry blond tyke, the squirt who looked so much like his daddy that people called him "scale model."

But when he puts on his camouflaged uniform and khaki boots, and tips his cap forward just so over his short-cropped hair, I see the man he is becoming. His lean body is so different from the pudge-monster we used to play ball with in the living room.  He's got his father's build, his father's lips, his father's quickness to learn, his father's determination.

He has regular drills with the Guard, and will be shipping out to basic training not long from now.  His other training will be extensive, so it will be December before he can go on his LDS mission.  It will be interesting to sit back and watch how he learns and grows over the next few months.

As a Mom, that's what we do: give them wings, help them learn how to use them, then watch them fly away. Happy flights, my son.  I'm ever so proud of you.

Love My House

In January, I decided that I wanted to be more whole-hearted, more on-purpose about loving.

In February, I got better at loving my husband by not letting his stuff mess with me.  We all have stuff.  I hope my mental and emotional baggage doesn't mess with him too much.  We've been working on it together.

In March, I'll be focusing on not letting my other stuff mess with me.  I mean the stuff in my house.  I've already been thinking about it here and here, and doing some work on decluttering here.  I want to first declutter, clean, organize, and prettify (that's a real word!).  And I need to give up some of my negative thoughts, too.  So instead of thinking about the massive stone fireplace that I'm not fond of every time I walk in the family room, I'll practice letting it go.  I'll replace those thoughts with happier, more loving thoughts as I do the work to have more that is truly lovely.

I think it would help me make it more of a priority if I had to give more frequent updates.  Maybe weekly (just not weakly)?  Need something catchy...  Moving it Mondays?  Throw it out Thursdays?  I'll put it on the back burner and mull it over...