why my mother made me

cleaning up and out.

My parents called us yesterday, asking us to assist in cleaning out the upstairs closet of their home. Cleaning anything at my parents' house can be a daunting task as there is always one child still living upstairs, lounging in the loft, their former apartment decor tossed about as the 3 Labradors growl at the cat that is now occupying what was supposed to be a guest room. This did not scare me.

Mike and I got up this morning, knowing I had to be into work after noon, and headed to the lake house. He wanted to know how long it was going to take and I assured him we would get it done in a flash and then spend the rest of the time drinking mimosas or sitting by the fire or better yet, both. I figured I would grab a yearbook or two, throw out some old pictures of people I didn't even know anymore and be on my way. What I failed to realize is that going through your old crap not only takes time, it takes emotional stamina, both from you and the ones who are brave enough to offer help.

I don't know what the proper responses should have been, but I wanted more than, "cool" when I showed off the ceramic tribal mask I had been saving from 2nd grade, made by none other than yours truly. "What are you going to do with this? Hang it up?" Mike laughed. I thought about it for a second before placing the mask in the trash pile. He was right. What would I do with it? We sorted through a few more books and papers, keeping my report cards in a folder (for proof that Mommy was a good student) and tossed my oragamied love notes from my first boyfriend and Sega Genesis partner, John (no one should ever read a 6th grade-me dropping the L-bomb in bad cursive ever again). We were making some real progress and Mike seemed to be on a helpful roll. It was nice to have some assistance in validating my cleansing decisions. Next item up for question was my denim cassette tape holder I got for my 7th birthday.

Mike opened it up and read through a few tapes: Amy Grant, Jimi Hendrix, Green Day, Mariah Carey, Operation Ivy, MC Hammer.... He then put it in the Goodwill pile, looking up to me, making sure not to offend. I nodded and continued to sort. The stone-washed zippered Voyager, with an adjustable shoulder strap didn't make it more than 30 seconds in that to-go pile before I pulled it out and put it next to my High School diploma. And while I was at it, the tribal mask was coming back too. I suddenly felt violated. "Why are you trying to make me throw away all of my stuff?!" Of course he wasn't, and of course he was only trying to help, but what we both failed to realize is that your own junk is hard to let go of, especially if it was not formerly junk to you. Living in our apartment has brought on a new need to purge, but I was not ready to give up a lot of this stuff, even if it meant it would sit in boxes until the next time we decided to "clean out".

Perhaps the act should be renamed to include the drawn out hours of nostalgic reliving that accompany the cleaning. "Remembering Your Rubbish," "Having Jollies with Your Junk," "No Loss while you Toss?" Ugh who knows. All I do know is that the next place we live better have an attic because there is no way I am willing to part with my Beatrix Potter bunny until I feel sure about it, even if she does sit in a wad of tissue paper underneath my Glamour Shots from 1994.