Spring Cleaning, and Other Lies I Tell Myself

It’s Spring. Ish. The weather in Maryland makes its own rules, and we’ve yo-yo’d from 80s to 40s to 60s in just a week. But Spring is coming, and it brings that wonderful idea of clearing out spaces and bringing in light.  In theory, a great way to spend time—opening windows, circulating air between inside and outside… we’ll just ignore the pesky pollen that comes with it.

But anyway. I always get excited to clear space, purge things we no longer use, reclaim areas that can be better used. And every year that enthusiasm wanes quickly. Because, let’s face it, there are so many better things to do. Reading. Knitting. Bingewatching whatever’s new on HuluDisney+NetflixPrime…. 

And this year doesn’t appear to be any different. At least not completely. Rather than a random “clean all the things” goal, I do have a concrete mission this year—clean the bookshelves.  Because I need space. For books. Lots and lots of books. I may have gone a bit overboard at CCR. And ordered some books online. And I am out of space. And I cannot stand the thought of them lingering in a box longer than absolutely necessary. 

Sooo… I have decided to take over two of The Hubster’s shelves.  Except, they’re not really his shelves. They’re a mishmash of things we’ve all accumulated over the years that our packrat brains are convinced we cannot part with. Except we can. Because everything we divest ourselves of is space for something we really want to keep. And that’s the mindset we’re taking into this venture.

And by we, I mean me, because in truth it’s probably mostly my stuff. But it’s so much easier to blame it on him. I just don’t want the responsibility of acknowledging all the things I haven’t parted with. 

Because, I’m the daughter of a hoarder.

And I promised after clearing out my dad’s storage units (yes, multiple) nearly twenty years ago I would never become like that. And I’ve worked really hard to not feel the need to keep everything I’ve ever brought into the house. And for the most part, I’ve been successful. But parenting plays tricks on you. It makes you believe if you throw away any piece of art, assignment, etc your precious spawns ever bestowed on you, you are in fact a bad parent.  And I’m over it.

My spawns are about to turn 16 & 19. I can take a picture of the Jack-O-Lantern they drew twelve years ago and toss the construction paper testimonial to their favorite holiday.  Because the picture is not my spawn. And the memory will still be there even when the faded orange memento is not.

But you know what will be there? Space for my signed books. And author swag. And a really amazing sense of accomplishment.

I’ll share pix. Promise.