For about the third time in my life as a parent, I’m doing a major crap reorganization. And by crap, I mean the sentimental things near and dear to my heart that I cherish almost as much as life itself.
Almost every time we move, I reorganize these boxes of memorabilia, which are marked with a large black-Sharpie M with a circle around it. These are not to be confused with the financial papers, labeled with a large capital F with a circle around it. The circle is code for Don’t throw this away ever or you will be hounded by the IRS or Mom’s rotting corpse, one scarier than the other.
I try to throw away at least a category every time I reorganize. Two moves ago, I got rid of all multi-media, 3-D elementary school art. Yes, that means you, autumn leaf notebooks, and you, projects with more glue than cuteness. And especially you, participation trophies with misspelled names. Last move, I got rid of most graded papers, all of my notes from a weekly newspaper editors’ conference I attended in 1989, and anything on a paper plate.
Once I meet my throw-away quota, I get to marvel at the cool stuff I’ve saved. And this time I was reminded of several things.
My kids are awesome
Among my kids’ things, I found a letter to my mom from my daughter. Short and to the point, it simply said:
“Dear Green Grandma, Jack and I opened a bar”
I’m pretty proud of this one. There wasn’t a single spelling mistake in that one-sentence letter. Judging from the backwards e’s, I’m guessing my daughter was around 5 when she and her brother got their liquor license. And look how well they were getting along! if two siblings, two years apart, can operate a successful business, I think the mom should get a lot of the credit.
There are so many other adorable things written by my kids. I seem to have saved every declaration of love for me, their dad, Santa Claus, and various TV shows.
I lived a simpler life as an 18-year-old than the average 18-year-old in a Third World Country today.
The keepsakes that I have from my own childhood prove to me that it’s not just my failing memory that makes my childhood seem simpler than humanly possible. According to the evidence, I went to school; came home, changed into play clothes, hooked up with my friends without ever having to knock on a door, bother a single person over 18, or use any electricity whatsoever; did my homework, watched Branded or My Three Sons, and went to bed. Occasionally a Brownie meeting was thrown in there . On weekends I went to baton lessons or to the library, church, and weird and wonderful adventures with my friend Diane that sometimes involved pretend abusive parents and real railroad tracks and other risks.
As I got older, my important milestones were captured in forever shiny laminating film by my mom, whose in the meantime had gotten a job in our middle school media center. Part of her job was to laminate things for the school. When my picture was in the Hubbard paper for being elected vice president of Future Teachers of America it got laminated. The letter accepting me into the pre-journalism program at Kent State – laminated. Five copies of my engagement announcement, eight copies of my wedding announcement – laminated and laminated.
As busy as I was vice-presiding over various clubs and either twirling, singing or playing the piano on weekends, the boxes of evidence show no sign of taking anti-anxiety medication over the PSATs.
Sometimes I forget about the impact that my dad had on me
My dad died when I was 6, so my memories of him are fuzzy and pretty much boiled down to toothpicks, a scratchy 5 o’clock shadow, and Old Spice. So I treasure the few things of his that I have.
Among them:
• His bowling trophy, which fell and broke two moves ago. I have all the pieces in a large Ziploc bag.
• Some bullets.
• His marbles championship medal from 1930. I thought it was a war medal, since it was with the bullets, until I saw the little guy on his knees in front of a circle of tiny balls.
• A postcard from the Holiday Inn in Mansfield, Ohio, that said, “Dear Diane, Daddy loves you. Be a good girl and I’ll see you soon. Love, Daddy.” I remember that trip. I thought he was in China. But since Mansfield is a good 120 miles from Hubbard, he might as well have been.
• Two of his pay stubs from the machine shop where he worked. A couple months before he died my dad was supporting a family of seven on what I spend on dog walking and wine.
He’s been gone a long time and since I remember more about my mom’s parenting than his, I’m happy to have some reminders that he was my handsome dad, with a toothpick in the corner of his mouth, calling me Redhead Pee the Bed.
We all wanted to look like them, but Barbies don’t age well
Where do I begin to describe how I feel about the Barbies? Our Barbie collection includes my own Barbies – the first platinum Barbie , which I acquired by trading in my original Barbie, that would probably be worth $1 kajillion by now; Julia, the first Black Barbie doll; Twiggy; Ken; and Allan. Quite possibly the first openly interracial couple in my town in the ’60s was when Julia went to get a pizza on the rocking chair with Alan.
They were the dream team when they were going on dates on my front porch. Today, after almost 50 years in storage, Platinum hair Barbie looks like an aging stripper. Julia’s hair has turned a strange color and refuses to lie flat on her head; it looks like a purple squirrel is sitting on her head. Twiggy’s black eyeliner has gone emo. Ken’s hand , chewed off by my dog Jenny, seems to have become infected, due to the lack of medical attention in various basements. And Alan’s formerly cute button nose now makes him look like an alcoholic Jack Klugman.
My daughter’s Barbies, much younger, haven’t fared much better. The box of her Barbies is just a mass of white-blond hair. I know she’s Rapunzel and everything, but that girl’s hair I swear has grown a good three inches since we put her away. And it’s a mess.
When I was lusting after my platinum haired Barbie’s cheekbones and thighs, I had no idea she’d need major work to continue to look that way. Just like a real girl.
