I try to do a deep-clean-out of the house twice a year. But late summer/early fall is mandatory. I dread the process with every fiber of my being. Mostly because it forces me to confront disorder, hoarding, and just all that…STUFF! And the too much-ness of it. How did it all accumulate? Where do we start the decluttering and more importantly, where does it end? It’s like going down the rabbit hole, and no matter how many times I go through this ritual, the dread never lessens and the cycle starts all over again.
At some point, usually mid to late July, the pace has slowed but the looming prospect of September starts knocking on the front door of my obsessive-compulsive soul. “I’m back!” says the voice. “And, not to scare you or stress you out, but there’s a ton of stuff in your house that’s gotta GO.” It does. It has to go. But where to begin, and once it’s begun should I just call the Cat in the Hat to take care of it for me? I wish.
I usually start with my own closet, during my own time. Five garbage bags in donation bins later I know it’s time for the serious stuff. I pump my kids up with promises of how good it’s going to feel, ice cream, and naturally, the prospect of getting MORE stuff. When the day arrives, I make biscuits out of the can for breakfast. Carbs. Like we’re training for a race. It’s actually not all that far off. And then we begin.
Closets and drawers and a seemingly bottomless pit of things that have been clung to emotionally for way too long or items purchased months ago that still have the tags on and haven’t been worn yet and/or no longer fit. The fury at clothes folded so nicely in laundry baskets over the course of the past year lying crumpled in corners of closets and drawers.
The filth and waste of it all; the relentless dust bunnies which lead to dusting and the frustration and shame of having let it go for so long. Followed by the promise to self that this will never ever, ever get this out of control again. Then it’s time for the vacuum to make an appearance. And now we’ve entered full-blown GET IT OUT mode.
The trembling mouth of my pre-adolescent son over the end of the Beanie-Boo collection as he announces, “But I love them.” Now it’s time for negotiation, as a few original, giant-eyed soul mates are held onto and others passed along to kids who need them more. The notion of these cherished possessions going to those less fortunate is critical to the avoidance of a full-fledged emotional breakdown. My daughter’s insistence that she will “eventually” wear a pair of leggings that has made it past two new school years without so much as a try-on? Girl, if they haven’t made the cut by now, they just won’t. Bye. With great reluctance, they are released, with the promise of much cooler leggings dangling on the horizon.
As we seem to be making progress, I seriously begin to re-think the layout of my basement, colors, carpeting, creation of a whole new way of living.
And when all is said and done, I stare at the mountain of stuff to give away, fleetingly satisfied but itching to get it out. Then I peer into my children’s empty closets with a couple of pairs of pants left and declare, “Time to go shopping!” And so it begins all over again.
But that momentary flicker of feeling tidy, charitable and in control? It’s the most delicious sensation that almost lasts through cutting tags off of mountains of new clothes that I’ll be folding and donating the next round.
