Cutting the fat out.

Got this term from my old partner in crime, Molly. Such an apropos statement to summarize the plot brewing in my head as of late.



I think (I hope, I desperately hope) that I'm on the verge of something super. I mean, really, really monumental. I'll explain:



Had a terribly gracious friend send her cleaning lady to my house the other day as a sort of combo birthday/anniversary gift. I use the term "house" loosely - I suppose if one refers to an apt. containing two small children, all of their worldly possessions including a multitude of plastic gadgets, clothes and furniture, one kitchen about the size and shape of a cucumber, and two not-too-terribly organized (read: incredibly disorganized) adults as a house, then yes, that would be what we are renting. Yes, my heart goes out to myself often these days. A little too often, it would seem, since at the present moment I am sitting here penning a missive to you about the piles lying about my house instead of getting off of my rear and getting rid of, say, just one.



So, in a very providential twist of loveliness, I had forgotten that aforementioned cleaning lady Genius On Kneepads was scheduled to be attending my house this past Monday afternoon. Monday was set to be a busy day for me, as all Mondays for the rest of the world are, and my main two objectives for the day were a dentist appt. for the toddler (infant in tow) and cleaning my entire townhouse top to bottom so as not to let New Babysitter in on our very messy, somewhat dirty little secret - that in my home, rarely are the dishes done, rarely is the table swiped clean, and never is the laundry complete, folded and put away. I mean never. Which sort of gives me a little segue into the main theme of this post, thus allowing me to avoid another digression. Yay!

So, as I haven't asked permission to use her name, I'll call my Fairy Cleanmother "N". "N" is amazing. I have to say I was a more than a little apprehensive about this experience, and did (insert sheepish grin) tear about my house in the hour before her arrival throwing clothes, shoes, Barbies and Play-Doh into baskets and behind closed doors. Even then I knew there was no hiding it. Oprah, here I come. I'm a hoarder. And I mean the worst kind. No, I don't have paths through my home (at least not yet) walled with clothes and trinkets, but I am that girl who, when offered something, says "yes" before the person has a chance to detail what exactly they're passing on. Bad news, people. And I mean it's embarrassing! I'd take a picture of my basement just to prove it to you - and if anyone needs a good laugh and you're, say, my best childhood friend or a member of my family, let me know and I'll take that picture. But otherwise - uh-uh. It's a scary sight. Games piled on wedding memorabilia alongside sporting equipment toppling over Christmas decorations and topped with say, an art project from the third grade. And it doesn't even have to be a particularly good one. All I have to do is see the date and I am loathe to part with it.

Well, "N" and I really got down to it on Monday, and man, I would have paid for the pep talk alone. And what I came away from our realization that we are both enslaved to this "keep it, might use it, don't touch it for five years....but NEVER throw away" mentality is this: it's time to pare down. Get back to the basics. Regroup. Clean up. Clean out. Throw out. (don't throw up).

The staccato statements make it sound so simple, no? I know it won't be. But I think I might be finally ready. What I seek most of all is the freedom that I hope will come from being rid of all of these belongings which I could argue even literally weigh me down. Hold me back. Keep me homebound. Cramp our style.

So while lamps and tables and old swimsuits and forgotten pictures lie in sweet repose down there....I muse. Little do they know, life's about to change for most of them. I've got a lofty goal - five boxes. That's all I want left. I'm not limiting myself on size, unless anyone suggests otherwise. I'm open for those, by the way - suggestions. This is not my forte - I mean the word organizing really gives me a cramp in the side. My own father has seen me in tears many times in the middle of a room with my belongings/homework/packing strewn about me, beyond frustrated because I don't know where to start and how it will ever end.

More importantly, a good friend of mine has of late been teaching me about how to do this on a more personal level. So introspection has ensued and it's been good. Cutting that fat out could do me a whole lot of good, and could only in turn be beneficial to those around me.

Gearin' up for a change....it's about time sister....

it's not easy outsmarting a three year old.

Exhibit A: a couple of months back on that splendiferous, sunny, sugar-laden holiday also known as Easter, our little family had taken a trip to visit extended family. On the way home after a busy, busy day of hunting eggs, one sprinkle-encrusted toddler piped up from the back seat, "Mom, can I have some gum?". Mind you, this was following 7 mini chocolate eggs, 3 lollipops, 2 peeps and one very ooey gooey Cadbury Delight (c'mon, life's no fun w/o exaggeration!!). Suffice it to say the kid may as well have eaten her weight in sugar, more than exceeding her quota for a week.

And as any mother who wants to keep her sanity along with a bedtime before 10 PM replied, I said, "No, honey, you've had quite alot of sugar and treats for the day."

After hearing nothing but silence from the backseat, I turned to my husband (w/ a half-smug look on my face for winning that battle so....quickly and painlessly) and proceeded to discuss some inside joke we'd shared earlier in the morning.

(k- remember that painless part).

And so Nick and I giggled together, and rested back on our haunches, exhausted but satisfied after yet another 2 family holiday, silently congratulating ourselves on keeping both children from hurting anyone else or themselves and not throwing up on anyone else or, themselves.

It was only after a few more exit signs that the little voice from the backseat piped up again, "Hey Mom?". "Yes, my dear?". "Does candy have sugar?". Naively chuckling to myself at her ever-burgeoning level of intelligence, I reply, "Yes, Ella, candy most certainly does have sugar." "Oh."

And husband and wife exchange knowing, amused glances in the front seat and the drive home continues.

A couple of minutes later....

"Mom?". "Yes, babe, what's up?". "Does gum have sugar?". (ok I'm not kidding you - this conversation has been going on now intermittently for a good 7 1/2 min. at this point. Quite long enough for my ADD-raddled mind to have forgotten how it began). "No, well, not alot at least." "Oh, then can I have some gum?". "No, Ella, I told you earlier! No gum, no more treats, no more candy for the rest of the night!".

(and here she pulls out the big guns...)

"But you said that gum doesn't have sugar!!!".

Deductive reasoning? Not cool, dude. Not cool at all.

Exhibit B: On the way home from an end of the year potluck celebration at preschool. Female toddler trying desperately to avoid nap-time. Pulls out a double whammy, "Mom, can I watch some TV after you make lunch?". The whammy is two-fold, and I will explain how. #1: watching TV will postpone any trips upstairs to bed. #2: there is no lunch to be made, because we just ATE lunch at the potluck. This she knows. But this she continues to pretend NOT to know. I will expound. "Ella, we just had lunch, silly!". "But, but, but, I didn't have lunch! I just, I just, I just jus jus jus had DINNER." Oh man! Blocked again. Toddlers all over the world in an alternate universe are applauding that one. You've really got her this time. How is she going to use logic to argue with the illogical? Good job, brave pre-schooler. You may just have outwitted her this time. You are well on your way to eating popsicles for every meal and covering every surface in the house with crayon in reckless abandon!

I digress.

"No, Ella, we just had lunch. Dinner-time is later." "NO! (whining) But, but butbutbutbut I CHANGED it!" Wha? Oh, you did, did you. You took upon yourself powers that belong not even to our own president, most likely, and altered the names and times of two everyday meals. Uh-huh. "No, punkin, we just had lunch" (wearily, now). Note to self: repeating logic in an even-measured tone to a toddler will get you nowhere. I repeat, nowhere. Even if that mom at the playground - you know, the one with the perfect blond bob, J-Crew boat shoes and striped layers, whose child wouldn't be caught dead in anything BUT baby Gap, you know the one - even if that mother looks to be in control as she's repeating to Cadence that, "Cadence, honey, it's time to go now, we need to return the books to the library before it closes.", well, she's not. Because behind the perfectly Burt's Bees glossed tightly wound up smile hiding clenched whitened teeth, she wants to pull every strand of perfectly straightened hair out just as much as you do. Trust me.

We'll digress alot on our journey together.

In a moment of truly desperate brilliant clarity that is only bestowed on mothers of especially challenging intelligent children such as mine, it came to me like a rare perfect Ohio spring day - unexpected, undeserved but well-utilized nonetheless. "Well, honey, see, we just ate, right? And since it is the time of day when we usually have lunch, and we ate, that's how we know it was lunch. DINNER-time is not until this evening, after Daddy gets home."

And while minions millions of toddlers all over the world blinked back disappointed tears, realizing that their hero had not come after all, a hushed sigh fell over the vehicle.

"Oh." she replied softly.

Pulling into my parking spot, I pumped an imaginary fist into the air, knowing I had earned my own double whammy. Keeping a toddler fit at bay thus prolonging baby brother's nap-time? I think my work is done here.