January 2015 archive

Time is on my side.….maybe.….

Where the hell are my Swatch Watch­es?” I am guess­ing that not a sin­gle one of you spent the bet­ter part of an hour repeat­ing that phrase as you fever­ish­ly tried to find your child­hood stuffed in a box, like me.

Tomor­row, in cel­e­bra­tion of Catholic Schools Week, Hand­some #1 is able to dress out of uni­form in cloth­ing inspired by his favorite decade. Since he is six and hasn’t even been on earth a decade, find­ing a favorite is tough. But, he does have a cou­ple of pastel polos, skin­ny jeans that can be tight rolled and loafers which make him an instant prep­py heart­throb and me a last-min­ute suc­cess. That was, of course, until I had the bril­liant idea to grab a few clas­sic acces­sories to com­plete the look.

I have had a tough time part­ing with many of my child­hood favorites, some call it hoard­ing, I call it, “take my friends away and I will stab you.” I have sev­er­al Rub­ber­maid totes filled with play­bills, book reports, passed notes and cher­ished Bar­bie and Hot Looks dolls. You will also find the occa­sion­al funer­al card from some of grandmother’s friends, who I nev­er met, that I found on the floor as a child and knew that I would be going straight to hell if I tossed them in the trash, so they have found an eter­nal rest­ing place next to my eighth birth­day invi­ta­tions.

I also have my Caboodle, still in tact from 20 years ago, filled with trea­sures from my youth. I ran up the steps to grab my three Swatch Watch­es for Finnegan to wear and was stunned to find that they were not where they should have been. OK, that’s a lie. I wasn’t real­ly stunned. It would be stun­ning that they were lost if I was a metic­u­lous house keep­er and orga­nized my life with the detail of some­one suf­fer­ing from OCD, but that is just a lie that I want to live. Instead, I find great solace in stuff­ing as much %h!+ as I pos­si­bly can into draw­ers, bags and box­es then shut­ting the clos­et door.

Soooo, they should have been in that Caboodle, but they were hid­den some­where else. I began my search in all of the like­ly places. I start­ed in jew­el­ry box­es, no dice. Moved on to mem­o­ry box­es, noth­ing. How about in the boys’ clos­et in the blue con­tain­er with my name and Geese stick­ers that my BFFs mom made me for my birth­day in first grade? Nope! With all of the usu­al sus­pects elim­i­nat­ed, I start­ed to dig deep.

I rifled through beau­ti­ful vel­veteen box­es that look love­ly and orga­nized in my clos­et, but are tru­ly filled with mis­matched socks and unfin­ished needle­point projects. I ven­tured under my bed and found a box con­tain­ing my CT100 final, an envelope of pic­tures from some weird event that I couldn’t iden­ti­fy and my blue Blos­somesque hat, but no watch­es.

I then moved to my dresser and searched among the cos­tume jew­el­ry trays and over­whelm­ing­ly fluffy scarves that filled the top draw­er. Sud­den­ly, my hand felt some­thing plas­tic and my heart skipped. I pulled the trea­sure from the bot­tom of the draw­er and my eyes filled with tears. I held it tight­ly not want­i­ng to let go of the mem­o­ry.

The long white stick with the pink lid had long since lost its two lines. It was utter­ly use­less, even to me, but the feel­ings that it had once given me all came flood­ing back. I was scared, I was excit­ed, I was filled with emo­tions that I had nev­er felt before and I couldn’t bear to toss it then or now. I’ve hid­den that bag from my hus­band, from my kids and from myself. Per­haps it’s gross, per­haps it’s weird, but it’s real and it’s me and it’s what I do and I think more of us than are will­ing to admit it do the­se things too.

I cried a lit­tle, think­ing that I may nev­er see two pink lines again, real­iz­ing that anoth­er stage of my life may be over. God’s plan is always big­ger than mine, so He ulti­mate­ly decides what my fam­i­ly will be, and I’m OK with that. Plus, I am tru­ly excit­ed about first grade, learn­ing more, los­ing teeth and becom­ing inde­pen­dent. I love PreK and those snug­gles and hand holds that come along with that last year of real­ly being lit­tle. Don’t even get my start­ed on not quite two. When some­one runs full speed ahead at your legs, leaps into your arms and cov­ers you with choco­late hugs and kiss­es, life is com­plete.

So as I stuffed that Ziploc back of ten or so EPTs to the back of the draw­er. Yes, ten. I mean, for real, you didn’t think that if I saved one I didn’t save all of them from all three preg­nan­cies, right? I say, if you’re going to do crazy, go big or go home. I con­tin­ued my quest for my hot Swatch Watch­es, but alas, it was time to get kids ready for din­ner so I called the search par­ty off.

Even if I had found the Swatch­es, I am one hun­dred per­cent cer­tain that time is stand­ing still on the faces. But, had Finnegan put them on his arm, it would still be 2015; there is no mag­ic tak­ing us back to 1992. That’s OK. I like it here, right now with my life filled with boys and lots of love sans Swatch.….

I am also hap­py to leave that white mock turtle­neck under a den­im shirt topped with an icy glare in the past, because, well, damn.…..