2003-06-11 - 4:36 p.m.
THE DUMP
The first year I had no name for it and I was not expecting it. Experience should have taught me it was coming. I had been a part of it before. But in my early years, the feeling was different. Later, when I taught school, I was a part of it too. But then the effect was different. But now I am the one left holding the bag�literally. I am referring, of course, to the end-of-the-school-year dump.
Every year, assorted large garbage bags of �stuff� make their way home in June. Junk in the locker is junk in the house. Worse, treasures in the locker are junk in the house. Even worse, useful items in the locker are junk in the house. All of it needs to be stored somewhere and no, the middle of the hallway is not the place.
The first sifting, while annoying, is relatively easy. We (actually, usually just me) pick through and find the recyclables. We pull out the barely used folders, the still-good binders, the ruler, the protractor, the thesaurus, the Spanish-English dictionary, and, if we are lucky, the scissors and calculator. I fill the extra school supply cabinet shelf and begin moving out other items to clear another one, only to fill it again.
The second sort, the search for the gym clothes, while disgusting, is not mentally challenging. Sure, those clothes would run gladly to the washer and throw themselves in�if only they could. In lucky years, they are in their own bag and need barely be touched. In unlucky years, some extra, particularly sweaty sock is lurking somewhere in the rest of the mess.
The next sort is more difficult. It involves the treasures. All that can be said of these treasures is that one person�s treasure is another person�s junk. Personally, I take the position that the proper attitude is �in with the new, out with the old.� In other words, I try to insist that for every new treasure brought in, some old treasure must be put out to pasture (and yes, to excess paper, the trash or recyclable bin is pasture. I know these things. I am the Mom.) You would think children were being executed in this house with the wailing, whining, and weeping that can accompany this part of the process.
But the worst sort involves the art project. This sort is personal. This sort seems to involve items that are the very essence of my children�s beings. This sort involves items that they believe I should treasure (and, occasionally, I do�but not nearly as often as they hope.)
So, I look around and realize what they say is true. It is better to do the dumping than to be dumped upon.
LAST YEAR: Marital Sins
TWO YEARS AGO: Non-Euclidean Lives
Dreaming of Recall Real Men Cutting Past the Bone Never the Twin Shall Meet Not Being There
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Copyright 2006 by Ellen |