I have the greatest in-laws. They love to take all three of my children away. If there's a 3-day weekend, the kids usually go. If there's a spring break, the kids usually go. Now that it's summer break, the kids went. Away. I love them with all my heart and brains and guts, but I sure do appreciate the breaks every now and then so my nerves have a chance to heal from their frequently frazzled state.
Since the kids are gone, and since it is incredibly hot out this week, I'm enjoying three of my favorite things on the planet: quiet, central air conditioning, and organizing. Oh, how I love to organize. I love to purge the house of junk, discarded toys, ill-fitting clothes, worn out shoes. Second only to the shrieks and cries of my children with the ability to take me to the brink of insanity, is a disorganized, cluttered house. It's probably almost crippling, my desire for order, but only for those around me. For me, it's bliss.
Entering my daughters' room is like entering a space specifically and deliberately designed to crack my fragile psyche. I get twitchy and edgy when I walk in there. My breathing becomes rapid, my blood pressure rises, and I break out in a cold sweat. Then I remember: I'm home alone. The room is mine. I get to turn the chaos into sweet, sweet, tranquil order.
As I worked through the wreckage today, I was struck by the differences between my two girls. Wendy, my very sensitive bookworm, turns every scrap of paper and every piece of lint into a treasure. She stuffs these things in her "treasure box," which is really just an under-the-bed storage box I gave each girl for the purpose of storing out of sight what they deemed most important in life. Wendy's box barely closes. The lid is bending, struggling to stay closed while pieces of paper poke out in every direction as though trying to draw breath as they slowly die under the weight of old notebooks and broken crayons. There's no rhyme or reason, and I fear that this child might be a lost cause.
Incidentally, I fought like a Hun warrior against every urge I had to turn that treasure box upside down over the garbage can, knowing that her little heart would be broken. I may lose sleep tonight thinking about that box, but it will be the sleeplessness of a woman who has made the right decision. I made the right decision, didn't I?
Then I came to Nina's treasure box. My wild and crazy middle child who is blissfully unaware of the world around her, who dances through life without a care, who can melt down like no other kid I've ever met had a treasure box in perfect order. The lid closed with ease. The contents were laid in the box carefully and methodically. It was like finding a rose in the middle of winter. Hope sprang up in my heart. My neuroses may just be rubbing off on her. Oh, she may stuff dirty clothes under couch cushions rather than take them to the hamper, and she may leave a trail of junk in her wake, and she may be unable to see a mess right under her nose, but that beautiful, organized treasure box put a song in my heart and a grin on my face.
Side note, lest you think I'm cruel to get rid of crap while my kids are gone:
The eldest has figured out a way to beat my system. Whenever she's given a present, usually from the grandparents, she asks them to store it at their home because, "Mommy will probably just throw it away." She'll be fine. Her junk is safely stored all over the country.
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