While my Lenten resolution to not scream at my children hasn’t been going craaaaazy well (maybe I’ll try again full-force once everyone can sleep in their own beds and pee in the correct receptacles), I am proud to say that I’ve been a champ at clearing out the clutter ’round here.
Kinda.
To date, I’ve sorted and tossed roughly eight or nine moving boxes worth o’ stuff from the deep, dark recesses of…our shelves and cabinets. Like- stuff in plain view that, only upon physically examining it, do I realize we do not and have not needed this item for quite some time.
Duplicates of books. Vases which were centerpieces at other people’s weddings. Baby toys- and I mean boxes of baby toys- that somehow acquired heirloom status, even though they were handmedowns of handmedowns.
Up until the other day, I was the proud owner of three stockpots. Three stockpots. I mean, what kind of soup kitchen-esque emergency would require me to use three stockpots and a fully functional crockpot? (And don’t tell me the Zombie Apocalypse. Because if that ever comes to pass- no, you may not come to my house for stew.)
There was a box full of boxes. I am so embarrassed.
“Well, *I* think you’re doing a great job.”
I discovered more than five broken pictures frames, which at one time I deluded myself into thinking I could repair and proudly display. WHEN DO I THINK I WILL ACTUALLY FREE UP ENOUGH TIME TO ACCEPTABLY REPAIR A BROKEN PICTURE FRAME?! (Let alone FIVE.) Also, picture frames are maybe six for a buck at Ikea. Am I telling myself I am better than Ikea? (Apparently not, since I also own a box full of Ikea frames.)
I tossed clothing which, not only hasn’t fit me since well before I started having kids, but which I cannot remember digging when it did fit. (But no, totally, let’s devote an entire dresser drawer for these prizes.)
At the moment, intense pride at my un-hoarding ability is warring with intense shame at my previous squalor.
Let’s go with pride. Especially since today is a day for Irish pride- and I happen to be exceedingly Irish- and the Irish are all about [grudging, slowly forthcoming] forgiveness. I think I have that inscribed on a platter somewhere.
Oh, who am I kidding? I have at least three.
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