Papers from last year remain unorganized, leaving little space to put all the assignments and worksheets and school schedule information that will surely be making their way into the house, brought home by a 3rd grader, a 7th grader and an 8th grader.
The bedrooms of the 3rd grader and 7th grader are as cluttered since their mother has finally ceded ownership of said disasters to the children who dwell in them.
Under my bed and in various closets and secret rooms are boxes filled with birthday cards and photos and home movies and scribbled "I love Mom" notes written by children years and years younger than any who now live here.
Clothes handed down from Eldest to Youngest and those passed over to me from other parents take up such a huge amount of space in the playroom's secret room that there is little space for anything else. It is likely Youngest has outgrown clothes and sneakers and cleats he's never even tried on.
In the cave -- the storage space under the house -- are even more boxes of yearbooks from my high school days, notes from my long-dead grandmother and military files and belongings of my even-longer-dead father.
I had trouble sleeping last night. I tossed and turned for nearly two hours beginning at about 3 a.m. Besides doing the typical berating of myself for being the horrible mother I am, I thought of all those items overflowing and overwhelming. What if I were to die today? How unfair would it be if someone else was saddled with having to go through all these things that mean nothing or little to them? [And here's hoping this isn't premonition.]
I've got a goal for the next couple of months: I'm going to plow through all those boxes and hiding places and I'm going to purge. I figure if I take on five boxes a week, I could be done by Halloween. Which is a good thing since I'm not entirely sure where the Halloween decorations are.
Here's to the Grand Purge. [And here's to hoping I don't drop dead the day I finish.]