“Can we get rid of this box? It’s full of tapes,” Tom said and made a move to take the box and TOSS IT IN THE TRASH PILE we had started. Was he nuts?!
“Stop!” I shrieked, then calmed myself down. “I mean. I might listen to them again. There’s New Kids on the Block in there. And the Annie soundtrack.”
Tom blinked at me. “Get the songs on iTunes.”
A lump was beginning to form in my throat. “But. But.” The thought of my tapes being crushed to death in the trash was beginning to bother me. True I could donate to Goodwill, but what if the person didn’t appreciate the tapes? I had them since I was little! I remember jamming to The Right Stuff when I was 8. I had a massive crush on Joey and pretended he was singing Please Don’t Go Girl to me. (“Don’t worry, Joey. I’m not going anywhere!”)
“So let me get this straight,” Tom said and I knew what was coming. “You won’t get rid of your notebooks from high school. You won’t get rid of your sweats from gym class in junior high. You won’t get rid of your tapes. You practically had a meltdown when I suggested we get rid of Tommy’s baby clothes—”
“I kept my favorite outfits!” I yelled. Don’t think that I kept them all. No, we donated a bunch to the Airman’s Attic before we left the base in Nebraska. But I kept my absolute favorites. And yes, maybe five outfits to keep is a bit much, but oh well.
“What are you going to get rid of?” Tom asked impatiently. He had easily dumped some of the clothes he no longer wore in the donate pile. It’s easier for men. They don’t get attached to things. He could care less if we got rid of Tommy’s mini boxers that I bought for him when he was 3 months old so he could match Daddy.
“I got rid of that fan,” I reminded him, pointing.
“Because it was broken.”
Oh. Well, still.
“I also got rid of the kid’s trike. That’s been around since Tommy was two. It was very difficult for me.”
“Why? It’s too small for the kids!” Tom boomed. See? No attachment whatsoever. Didn’t he remember Tommy learning to pedal for the first time on the trike? It was a struggle for him to pedal and the doctors said it had to do with his sensory processing disorder. He had low muscle tone. When he finally got it, I was so happy. I even let him bring the thing into the house so he could keep pedaling. Tom wasn’t as amused with that one. He kept grumbling, “Bikes belong outside.”
“What is all this?” Tom demanded, opening a large plastic bin that was full of toys.
“Oh, that’s what I picked up at the Target 70% off toy sale. Some will be for Christmas, others are put aside when the kids are invited to birthday parties,” I explained.
“How are we ever supposed to organize this garage?” Tom wanted to know.
“Well, we have a pathway that we can walk through so that’s good,” I said. Then I flashed to an episode of Hoarders. Crap. They also make a pathway to walk through while their stuff looms around them. Sort of like the garage. Only we don’t keep trash in there and I swear, you won’t find a body of a squished cat either.
Still, Tom is right. So I’m going to make more of an effort to get rid of stuff.
Yes, I am a pack rat. Only, as I’ve said before, I like to call myself a Preserver of Memories. There’s a difference.
There’s a difference.