Wheat from Chaff

A long time ago, or what seems like one, Dragonfly tagged me for a meme. 

I'm grateful for this because I love memes, truly I do.

But this one seems more than usually appropriate because it involves going back through your archives and posting the links to your favorite blog posts as they fall into one of five categories.   For me, this is less of a meme and more of a challenge as I've written 447 posts, dating from 02/15/06.  Going back to these old posts seems eerily like time-traveling.  Sifting through these posts, I can see why any science fiction worth its salt recommends not meeting yourself in the past.  Most of these texts cite some sort of dire time-twisting-vortex-blasting type of thingy, but I think it's all subterfuge.

I think that most of us, on meeting our former selves, would be a little bored and question all the fuss.

I've been feeling a vague sense of displacement all week as I've sorted through all the things that G. and I have accumulated over the last past six years, constantly weighing what makes the cut, what goes into the Good Will bag, and what gets thrown away.  Maybe this is middle age, but some of the choices I've made have surprised me. 

I'm usually ruthless about paring my things down to the bone.  Well into my thirties, I boasted that I could load all of my possessions into my car.  Although that ability ended when I bought the Miata, which can't even fit my kids, I still like to keep things simple.

In preparing our house for sale, though, I've surprised myself with the things that I've kept.  "I might still wear that shirt," I think, as I throw it into a suitcase.  "I wore those shoes in graduate school," I sigh, ignoring the fact that they have three holes in them and putting them in the "keep" pile anyway.

Although that old self might be slightly awkward, a little out of place, I still very much want to keep her around. 

So, without further ado, here is the written equivalent of that old blanket, which you just can't throw away:

About Family:  Late Night Negotiations - 08/24/06

About Friends:  You know, I really don't write enough about friends.

About Yourself:  Birth Plan - 02/02/07

About Something you Love:  Puffy Feet (Redux) - 01/13/06

About Anything you Choose:  Homeboys - 03/01/06

2 Busy 2 Blog

We're thinking about putting our house on the market.

Well, we're more than thinking about it.  We'll probably actually do it, which means that a world of work has just landed in our laps.  As our house is over twenty years old, we've been freshening up the paint, caulking, and spackling like two mad people.   

If you ever want to get your husband interested in house-hunting, all you have to do is show him a basement, especially if he is currently a man without a basement.  The basement, it seems, is all.

The need to hold down a job and mulch has pushed much else off of my plate, including keeping up with my blog. 

I have, however, found plenty of time to worry.  I've scheduled a talk with the day care center's director tomorrow about the fact that my boys are now in a room of "two-year-olds" rather than the "young twos" that we were promised.  Whenever I go to pick them up, there seem to be different kids in this room and different teachers. 

I'm a little frustrated, at this point, and I wonder if anyone is every truly happy with their childcare or if we've just had bad luck.

To Kelly

**Beep***

Um.  Hi.  This is Suzanne S*, well, I'm Suzanne M* now, but ....and this is going to sound weird, but we used to be friends, like in the second grade and then best friends, in the only way that girls can be best friends, all the way up until high school. 

And, well, I can't believe I found you. Not then, I mean now.  I don't intend to sound stalkerish or anything but it was hard to find you because you got married and I didn't know your married name.

Even assuming that I have the right person, now.  If you didn't use to be Kelly T*, please disregard what I'm about to say next.

I've been thinking about you.  Whenever Project Runway comes on, actually, I think of you.  I believe that one day I'm going to see you, waiting in line to see the judges with your portfolio tucked under your arm.  I wonder if you're still in the fashion industry.  If you're even still in New York, because last I heard you had graduated our state school and got a job for a company who sold women's vests in the city.  It was still the 80's, after all, and I laugh a bit when I think about it, because who wears vests anymore?

Anyway.  I know it's stupid, but I'm calling to say that I'm sorry.

I'm really, really, really, really sorry.

You know that I still have the note?

We passed it back and forth in 11th grade, almost 25 years ago.  I still have it, but I can honestly say that I've never looked at it.  I know what I wrote.  I know what you wrote and I know the effect of my words.

I reflect on my 16 year old self in sheer amazement that she could possibly believe that you owed her anything, much less a confidence she had no right to expect.  I can't believe that I/she so confidently claimed the mythical moral high ground and from that space turned her back on you, expelling you from our little group of friends.

I applaud you for not trying to crawl back.

Anyway.  I've always regretted it.  I've always seen that self as my worse self.

And I'm sor...

*beep*

** Written for the Monday Mission over at Maypole's **

Memories

Between paying the nanny for her remaining vacation and paying the new daycare center, we paid out over $1,000 in child care for the week.  This would have been fine had we had actual childcare.

In case you were wondering why I didn't post long rambling letters about the second, third, and fourth days of daycare, it was because the center decided that Ty-baby's cough and slighly runny nose meant he was sick and sent him home.  They added Hen-bug for good measure.

Not having childcare is stressful.  It's hard to work a job, manage a house, and keep two toddlers from swinging from the chandeliers. 

I truly hope that next week is better, that the twins are better.

Spending time in their company, however, made me realize the things that are important to them.  They are, in this order: daddy, trains, balls (with hoops), and dog.  They remember these things and can recount them.  These are are their memories, or at least, the memories that they can tell me about. 

"Dog, dog, dog" cries Ty-baby as we drive down the street in the van. 

"I see no dog," I tell him.  Then, I remember that one of our neighbors was walking his dog when we left the neighborhood about twenty minutes ago.

Recalling the giant balloons that heralded the grand opening two weeks ago, Hen-bug cries "boon" as we pull into the gym parking lot.

As the family archivist, it stands to reason that I should record not only my own memories, but their memories as well - memories of red balls, choo-choos, and a cold late afternoon in the yard.