What Lies Ahead ... Maybe ...

As much as I profess to ward off any kind of resolution-making each new year, I can't help but feel some kind of internal tugging toward change. It could be a small one, such as declaring "This is the year I go to the dentist," or it could be an emotional one, such as getting rid of baby items. I don't look at these things as "New Year's Resolutions" per se -- rather, I see them as things looming on my upcoming year's horizon.

A few things coming up this year are rather unavoidable, both of which involve Grace. She will turn 3 in July, a birthdate which in itself symbolizes some kind of change. The age of 3 somehow means that she is leaving her babyhood behind her; she is no longer categorized as a "toddler." She cannot fall back on the old stand-bys and excuses for her behavior ("Oh, she's still a baby" or "She's not ready for that yet"). Here are the two things which I think are unavoidable this year, but will be hard for me for so many reasons:

1. Potty training. This is clearly my Achilles heel of motherhood. I hate this prospect. I lived in fear of it when Aidan was around this age, resolutely postponing the inevitable for my own "legitimate" excuses (in reality, having absolutely no clue or instinct how to go about it). At this age -- Aidan at 2 and a half -- I was pregnant with Grace, and I vowed that I would not train him while I was pregnant, having heard too many convincing stories of backsliding, of regression, when the new cuddly intruder came into the family's midst. Aidan was a few months past three when I started training, and I am convinced that by waiting until he was older we all benefited, since the process took only a week. Phew. That means I can probably wait until late summer to start this with Grace. But still ... it's coming ... and I still have no idea how to tackle this with her.

2. Leaving the nest. When Aidan turned 2, we moved him out of the crib. He simply outgrew it with his long frame. Also, he was (and still is) a thrasher, and his constant movement -- and subsequent banging up against the crib rails -- kept him (and us) from a sound sleep. It was a beastly experience, transferring him from the crib to a regular bed. Horribly beastly, yet necessary. Thankfully we have no such sleep problems with Grace. While she too is very long, her cramped quarters don't bother her one bit. But for me, dealing with their bunk bed arrangement, with the crib tucked away under Aidan's top bunk like some kind of giant trundle bed, I'm tired of the set-up. Things fall behind the beds and I must transform myself into a contortionist in order to retrieve them. It's simply annoying. I think I'm ready to get rid of the crib. I just hope she's in agreement.

I think I can handle those "resolutions" this year. They won't be easy -- I can see many accidents and stubborn set backs with #1 -- but it's all part of the territory. Yet there's another, more emotional task looming before me, one that I begin to think about and then tuck it away, finding it to be a difficult decision to make. I'm not exactly sure why it's causing me so much grief, but it is. Sometimes emotions just cannot be explained.

I am a pack-rat. I like to save things. I am a very emotional, sentimental person, so many material and tangible items more often than not have meaning attached to them ... at least for me. I have saved every card and letter given to me from my husband. I save much of Aidan's work from school, at least many of his "firsts" (first writing of letters, first art work, first note to me, etc.). In the past, this habit of mine was never a problem. We lived in very large parsonages, with cavernous attics and basements, so storage was not an issue. And coupled with the fact that I am a very organized person, delighting in the wide variety of storage bins that are available, saving precious items and storing them was easy.

Now, however, space is a major issue ... or I should say, the lack of space. While my dad graciously gave us the front room of the attic (roughly 1/3 of the entire attic space), as well as use of the basement, our storage capacity is severely limited, at least compared to what I was used to having. I am very grateful for this space, don't get me wrong. The only problem is that we're busting at the proverbial seams. That attic room is perfectly organized, labeled, and stacked ... but there's not much space left for anything new. Half of the room, on the right, is Don's life as a clergyman, all boxed up. It's sad, really, to see his vocation, his calling neatly stacked in labeled boxes. There's something really wrong with that, but it's there. Waiting. Constantly reminding.

The emotional aspect of the attic, for me, is housed on the left. Bin after bin after bin of my children's clothing, ranging from birth to present day. The rational, practical side of me is well aware that if I got rid of these clothes (and not to mention the other big-ticket items like the pack-n-play, exersaucer, swing, high chair), that entire front attic room would be opened wide. However, the emotional side of me can't seem to allow it. I'm not sure why, exactly. We have both agreed that we are happy with our family the way it is and cannot foresee having another child. It's just too much. So why do I want to hang on to these clothes? Perhaps it's the hesitancy in putting such a sharp finality on something so dear, to say "This is it!" and no more. Perhaps it's the fact that I don't remember much of Aidan's first year of life, due to sleep deprivation and a feeling of helplessness and cluelessness, having no idea what I was doing and feeling every day that I was screwing it all up. Perhaps holding on to his tiny little clothes makes up a bit for feeling like I "missed out." Perhaps hanging on to those bins of baby things acts as a life preserver of sorts, holding on to "something" precious from the past, because I so often feel afraid of the future. Perhaps my reluctance in getting rid of them stems from my anger and residual bitterness directed at those individuals who played such a horrible role in our lives in the first place, thinking "If it wasn't for what they did, I wouldn't need to be making these kinds of emotional decisions in the first place," and feeling, "We lost so much already because of what happened -- I don't want to lose even more." Perhaps I'm just oddly neurotic, attaching way too much import onto inanimate objects.

So ... I'm still not sure if this is the year in which I will purge those things we just don't need anymore. I know we need the space. If one day I do say, "OK, this is the day" then I know there will be a lot of shed tears, acknowledging some kind of a loss that I can't even explain or understand myself. Maybe this year ...