EXPLETIVE DELETED!

I knew this would be the hardest part.  And I have blissfully not thought about it for weeks. . . .well, months. . . heck. . . years!   The last vestiges of the downsizing.  The hard stuff.  The stuff that made the first cut when I moved out of my townhouse in Burke.  The stuff that made the second cut when I moved out of my townhouse in Old Town.  The stuff that made the third cut when I moved out of my place on Devils Knob.  The stuff that made the fourth cut when I moved out of Coles Farm Road and into a storage unit.


And so here it is.  All the hard choices rearing their individual and collective ugly heads.   Requiring me to put my money where my mouth is.   Are you really downsizing, sister?  Or are you just making noise?


This is the hard stuff.  So I thought I would let my blog be a place where I considered the pros and cons of a couple of items in an attempt to make the decision.  Here goes:




Item #1

I know.  A no-brainer, right?  A plastic plate designed by my then 9-year-old first- born son, probably as a Mother's Day gift.  So what mother in her right mind would ever part with this?   It says "I love you" and everything.  And there's a HEART!!!  And that silly little goofy face that Chad always liked to draw on everything. . . shortly before he started drawing guns and explosions on everything.  The peaceful years.    Remember those????


But let's dissect this more thoroughly, shall we?  Because comprehensive downsizing often requires that you put your heart on hold, because it is precisely that (expletive deleted) heart that has gotten you to the place where you can't open the front door but for all the junk!  Well, that and a chronic case of procrastination, slovenliness,  ADD, and depression.  But let's just go with the heart thing for a moment.


The reality of this plate is that it was no-doubt made in school, at the end of the week on Friday.  A Mother's Day project.  It's practically a requirement in elementary school.   So here's Chad facing the plate.  In reality I'm guessing he's not thinking,  "Oh I just love my mom so much.  I'm so grateful for this opportunity to put down on plastic with Magic Marker all the feelings of a lifetime that I have for this angel in my life!"     No.  .  . he's saying (even in 4th grade),  "Are you (expletive deleted) kidding me?   Another plastic item to decorate?  Why aren't we out on the playground kicking a ball?"    So he grabs his primary colors (guaranteed to not match any decor I will ever have later in life) and draws 4 hearts, a couple of flowers, and for good measure, a couple of those wacky signature goofy faces with the tongue hanging out.   His teacher probably comes around and notices the very bare spot in the middle and asks Chad if he's going to fill that space also.   He responds that, no, he is in his minimalist stage at present, and prefers to leave it blank.  To which his teacher gently prods him to "at least say I love you" or he will have to stay after school to finish it. 


That could very well be the story behind this plate.  And I will never "serve cookies" on it because I haven't let a cookie across the threshold of my house in 15 years.  And if I did, they would never make it to the plate anyway.  I would have eaten the whole package right out of the box on the way home from the store.  Homemade cookies?  Are you kidding me?  They were eaten raw before ever reaching the oven.  I have ISSUES, okay?


But you can't give this to a thrift shop!   Who buys a plate colored by someone else's kid?   Probably the same people who buy the old family photos that you see in there.   Do I throw it away?   Do I recycle it?   Do I stick it on a top shelf never to be seen again?   Oh.. .  here's an argument.   Put it on the top shelf so that after I die, Chad, in going through my things sees it, and feels all warm and fuzzy because I kept it all these years.    Reality check:  Chad will NEVER go through my things upon my death.  And if he did and did find it, he would say, "Oh, (Expletive deleted)!  That figures.  She put MY stuff way up here on the top shelf where nobody could see it!!!!"


And I promised myself that I would not keep anything ever again that would just be relegated to a top shelf never to be enjoyed.     You see my dilemma?


Item #2:

Oh God.  Another plastic Mother's Day gift.  This one made by Chad the following year, when he was 10.   This time it is a flower pot.  I guess the teachers consulted with each other and made sure we moms got different plastic-ware as the years went by.  So considerate!


Okay. . . primary colors again.  Let's see how Chad's feelings for me evolved in the course of a year.   This time I get a "#1 Mother"!   Wow! An upgrade! There are two hearts. . . one with an arrow running through it.  . .. .probably foreshadowing for the years to come.  And off to the side, where you can't see it in the picture, is a nice sunshine!   No goofy faces at all.  And no guns or explosions either.  This is progress perhaps, especially considering that he's getting older which historically does not usually translate into feelings getting warmer and stronger, child-rearing-wise.   I expect he liked this project better because he only had to draw this design on a piece of paper and then it was magically turned into a flower pot when he wasn't looking.   


So here's these two items.  And I can channel my inner Marion Powell (my mother, who could part with any sentimental item known to man in one felt swoop, but could labor for hours about how to deal with the paper clip and rubber band she found in the bottom of a drawer) and just let these two items go.  I could do that.   I have given away LOTS of things that tug at my heart in the last 5 years.


But then I turn the plastic flower pot around:

Now here's where I'll have to interpret for you.  On the right, under where it says 1988 Chad, is a picture of a glass of wine (I rather like the straw in the middle).  And to the left is a pair of long, dangly earrings. This is Chad killing me softly with his magic marker.  And it also could potentially be evidence for the prosecution in a child abuse court case.  It rather suggests a parent who dresses provocatively and goes out to get drunk every night leaving her defenseless children alone.


But that's not what it means at all.   And Chad and I both know it.  This is where my not-so-little boy acknowledges on a plastic flower pot that he has seen me, has paid attention, and loves me.    We had our moments together while my boys grew.  I was a single parent and I overdid it on the feeling that maybe working multiple jobs all the time was the best way to go.  I was stressed.   But I was also goofy.  And there was a lot of laughing and clowning around in our household.   And I loved long, dangly earrings and made quite a production out of it when I got a pair or put a pair on.   (I prefer hoops these days if I wear earrings at all.  But this was another time.)   I also loved having a glass of wine with friends.   Something I still love.  And I'm sure Chad knew I was really happy when I was with my friends.   And it meant as much to him as it used to mean to me when my mother had bridge club at our house.  It was the only time she ever smoked cigarettes.   Something about the nicotine made her usually intense face soften up and become gentle.   I remember that face vividly, even though that was a very brief time in my growing up.


So here we have it.  Plastic-ware from my son.   As Chad used to say in one of the wacky games he dreamed up for his radio show:  The River?   or Life?


Oh hell. . . . I'm keeping them both.   Now on to the other nine millions items to go.   (Expletive deleted!)