Tuesday, March 12, 2013

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

Some of you already know that one of the reasons my husband, our son, and I returned to the Pacific Northwest from our beloved Texas was to attempt to help both of our mothers clear out decades of stuff from their respective homes. My mother lives in Portland, in a house just over 1,000 square feet (which I'm fairly certain doesn't include the semi-finished basement or attic), encompassing 2 bedrooms and 1 bathroom, while my husband's mother lives in the suburbs of Tacoma, in a sprawling house of 2,245 square feet (which may or may not include the garage), which has 5 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms. My mother has lived in her home 26 years, since my parents were divorced; his mother has lived in her home 34 years, the majority of those with her husband (now deceased), who collected as much stuff as she has. For year, my husband thought his father was the clutterbug, that his parents had so much stuff because he wouldn't let go and kept bringing things into the house. After his death, however, it soon became apparent that my sweet mother-in-law (MIL for the sake of brevity here) has just as many issues with stuff as my father-in-law did. Just, you know, different stuff. While he had a habit of hanging on to decades-old bowling trophies and books and ordering things from infomercials (am I the only person who has actually seen Billy the Singing Bass up close and personal on Christmas morning?) she tends more towards food/kitchen contraptions and shoes. Those are only the main categories for each of them, mind you.

Anyhow, when I took the job in Portland, one of the reasons the boys moved in with my MIL in Tacoma (other than the fact that my husband got a job there) was so my husband could help his mom clear out & do some light remodeling on her house so she can sell it and move down with one of her sons & his wife in Phoenix. Obviously, you can't expect to sell a house when it is crammed full of clutter. But that was 20 months ago, y'all. And while my husband guesstimated it would take a good 2 years to go through everything and get it cleared out, I can tell you that only 2 rooms in the house are ready for sale: our son's bedroom (which was my husband's growing up, aaaaw!) and the main bathroom. My husband's room (which is also my room when I'm in Tacoma, hee hee) was decluttered, but has not yet been painted or had the carpeting replaced. Rooms that haven't been touched? The living room, the kitchen, the dining room, the den, 2 more downstairs bedroom, the large upstairs bedroom (which includes several “attic” closets), the garage, the laundry room, the 2nd bathroom, and a utility room. Oh, did I mention there are also two locked sheds in the backyard, one for her and one for him? My husband once mentioned the last time he saw the inside of either shed was in the mid-80s, and they were both crammed to the rafters. The backyard is also filled with decrepit grills, toys, tools, and various paraphernalia.

So I think I can safely surmise that the decluttering plan has not gone exactly, well, according to plan. So I'm stepping in, gingerly. It's like edging on to a field full of live mines, I swear. While I consider myself an effective organizer in all types of situation, the particular combination of people involved in this clutter (my husband and my MIL, two of my most beloved people in the world) make it very difficult for me to be as ruthless and analytical as I can be with friends, colleagues, and strangers. Common sense and logic hold no sway in this crazy, mixed up, stuffed full world. Forget the 1-year rule; in this house, there's not even a 30-year rule. If you ask my MIL if she would rather have her clutter or the space in her home, she will undoubtedly tell you the stuff. My husband claims it border on pathological. Take, for example, the bedroom that was his father's for the last years of his life. After his death, my husband and 2 of his brothers purged the bedroom ruthlessly, dumping almost everything within days, before the funeral even. They had the stained carpet ripped out, replaced it with easy-to-clean laminate wood, painted the walls and replaced broken fixtures. We returned to Texas feeling confident that at least one room of the house was clean. That was in August. When we returned to visit at Christmas, the room was filled, to the point that you couldn't even walk in. My husband posits that there is an actual fear of space at work here.

I get it, I do. She's a 73-year-old black woman. She was raised in rural Louisiana, the segregated South, and never had enough as a child. She then became a military wife, moving all over the world before her husband retired at Fort Lewis (now Joint Base Lewis-McCord). She raised 4 boys, the fourth of whom (my husband) is nearly 20 years younger than the oldest. Until her husband died several years ago, my MIL had never lived alone. Ever. But I also understand that her stuff owns her. It's keeping her from living the life she says she wants to live (retired in Phoenix with her son & daughter-in-law). It's not healthy. It's not at the point of people feces, like you see on that hoarding show on TV, but as I priced & boxed up some things in preparation for a yard sale today, I found mice droppings. I also worry about my son eating expired/spoiled food. Sigh. Finally, I know that if we don't deal with this situation now, my husband and I will be dealing with it after she dies. It's frustrating, especially since I'm used to being the professional help, but I'm starting to think that we're going to have to bring in some other professional help, someone who isn't related to her. Sigh. Seriously, y'all, help me out. I know what to do when it comes to decluttering and organizing, I just don't know if it's worth it trying to do it in this particular situation or if I should figure out a way to pay someone else to do it. Thoughts?

Monday, March 4, 2013

A Funny Thing Happened at the Baby Shower...

It's amazing how uttering the words, "I had a c-section," completely shuts down a conversation about childbirth. Nobody asks to hear your "birthing story" - is almost seems like, in the eyes of some other mothers, you haven't given birth. Which, of course, is ridiculous. If I didn't give birth to my son, how exactly do you think he got here? He certainly wasn't hatched from a giant blue robin's egg. Nor did we build him out of spare parts, like Frankenstein. It's hurtful when other women assume you have nothing to contribute to a discussion about childbirth because your baby came out of a surgical incision in your abdomen instead of your vagina. Am I supposed to be ashamed of the way my son came into the world? Like somehow, I didn't fulfill my destiny as a woman, or what? And if that is the case, what about the mommies who adopt? Is your effectiveness as a mother dependent on the way your child enters the world? I say no, and I resent the implicit idea that someone who births their child "naturally" is doing what is best for their baby because they love their baby more than someone else. Self-righteous, party of 1, anyone?

Unlike some other c-section mommies I have spoken with, I don't feel as though I was somehow cheated out of my ideal birthing experience. Honestly, I wasn't too hot on the whole idea of a vaginal delivery, and 29 hours of induced labor did nothing to increase my enthusiasm. Yes, that's right, 29 hours. And that is after 42 weeks of carrying my child, 14 days past full term. I have the stretch marks, the saggy tummy, and a 6 inch scar that say I gave birth, no matter what anyone else says. I also had a doctor who decided my 10 lb 9 oz bundle of joy was stuck trying to get through my cervix and it was time to take him out another way. I don't regret having a c-section. I don't regret going through labor. I don't regret having our sweet Monkey Boy. I do regret going so many years allow myself to be shut out of these types of conversations without standing up for myself and our birthing story.

So consider yourself warned, women of the world, when you run into this topic with me at a baby shower, at a mommy's night out, at the grocery store, on Facebook: I am no longer putting up with people expressing negative judgments about any woman's birthing story. C-section mommies of the world, rejoice! We have healthy, beautiful children who could care less which hole they came out of, or even if the hole was in our body or another woman's! How they come out doesn't matter; how we raise them once they're out does.