paperwork

I paid the piper, a little, the other day.  I'd done the "dash and dump" cleaning a few too many times when guests were expected, and I had to sort through some piles of papers. Because I am a pretty horrible housekeeper who still craves order and cleanliness, I often ponder the root issues of my slovenly ways.  One of my favorite scapegoats is my children.  When you combine my three children's unending desire to create crafty junk- errr, art- with my sentimental heart, you get an avalanche of what should basically be recycling.  Papers, yes, but also cardboard boxes of every sort, toilet paper tubes, pipe cleaner creatures, and bits of yarn and ribbon tied into... I don't know what.  Junk.

And whatever fount of creativity my children tap into, well, it has no "off" valve.  Their art is legion, and to them it is too precious to be thrown away. Ever. So the other day when I had a substantial chunk of alone time I vowed to go through the paper mountain.  I wish I could chuck it all without another glance, but I know in each paperwork pile I have some gift certificate, birth certificate, or other random piece of paper that would save my life someday.  So I slog through it, all the while aware that a few minutes each day of effort at this would save me from these huge piles.  I hate how smug my hindsight can be.  Grrr. Anyways, I start out very businesslike, with firm resolve not to save anything I don't need.  When it comes to my kids' art, I figure that if I won't weep with happiness to have it in 20 years, then GET IT OUT OF THE HOUSE NOW. The "recycle where the kids won't see" pile grows quickly.

At first.

Then my heart softens. Memories of what it meant when our girl drew that lopsided heart come to mind. It seems certain that this card made by our oldest boy for our youngest is the perfect artifact of their relationship. The recycle pile slows. The "find somewhere to keep this forever" pile starts to pick up steam.  My work slows as I label and date all the treasures that beg to be logged in my personal Smithsonian.  After a while my heart sinks. Crap.  At this rate, the box I have for each child's lifetime of mementos will be crammed full by their graduations. From first grade.

Nothing in high school or college prepared me for this.  Okay, well it was supposed to. It tried. But it didn't.

In the end, I make progress.  And I know that in the future, I will have the willpower to recycle more.  For now, progress is enough.  And someday, when my children move out and have their own lives, I will bless them. With a great big box full of construction paper and printer paper with glitter and tipsy letters and misshapen hearts and memories. Which will probably be promptly set out on the curb. And that's fine by me. Because, Lord willing, they will have their own personal, commissioned artists with an overwhelming output filling up their home with love and color.