Pardon me...

It is crunch time for teachers in South Florida, as school starts on Monday.  I have been working my tail off, and I promise to devote a few hours this weekend catching up on blog posts, and sharing what's been going on here, including a special list on how NOT to piss off your child's teacher before school starts...

In search of...

Just recently, my sister and her husband decided that their little 2/2 love nest condo is no longer roomy enough for their ever exploring little girls. They just got a pre-approval letter from a mortgage company, so the search is on.

They are not too particular about what features they want in their potential new home. A nice yard, a certain location, at least three bedrooms, two baths, and a two car garage. They assumed that they would be able to purchase a little more home than they could have two years ago, given the flush of foreclosures and short sales in the South Florida area.

What they did not count on is the squalor these homes are in...They don't call them short sales for nothing, people.

Angie and I have spent the last two days with the five kids meeting real estate agents all around town, in joyful hopes of finding "the one." If you have ever tried to do anything with children, then you understand that it is the equivalent of walking underwater with 30 pound deadweights around each leg. Toddlers and other assorted young children should never, ever be taken on such an endeavor...

But I digress.

We have seen a kinds of gems in the last two days. Needs TLC is realtor speak for get ready to unload big bucks to make the Health Department award a certificate of occupancy. We have seen kitchens that would make any of us healthy eaters into anorexics. Bathrooms? Ever feel the urine creep right back into your bladder in a really filthy public restroom? Same feeling. And the carpets? YUCK. I felt like disinfecting my shoes before I walked into my own home after viewing some of the properties. Missing cabinet doors, non functioning central air conditioning units, suspicious water damage in corners, cracked toilet tank tops, shoddy enclosures in garages to augment living space, secret hair salons at home equipment and really questionable decorating choices. I think that the paint job in the master bathroom in the last house we saw today actually made me lose some of my vision. It literally burned my eyes.

The worst is when the owners are on the premises when you are viewing their homes. They either run for the hills (or in this case, the intense Florida heat of their "glorious backyard") or they stick around and help point out the upgraded Benjamin Moore paint that was obviously applied by a five year old, or tell you that they have taken their wonderful front loading washer and dryer to their new home. Thanks.

Even worse is how people fail to make their homes a little easier on the eyes in order to facilitate the sale. Really, do potential buyers need to stumble over your open luggage at the top of very narrow stairs and see that your packing skills match your non-existent housekeeping abilities? Or, how about making the bed if you know the realtor is bringing somebody by? Wash the dishes in the sink? Run a vacuum cleaner, perhaps? I don't think lived in should look trashed. I have seen some mighty messy places in the last 48 hours. My own home with my clutter would make Martha Stewart proud.

We have made realtors very nervous as they see us unload from my sister's van like clowns climbing out of their little car. They smile nervously, clear their throats, and clearly don't know how to proceed. Sometimes they can be very gracious and kind, offering to watch the five children while you have a quick look-see in the master bathroom. Sometimes, they curse under their breath when the security guards in these gated communities won't let them in after 45 minutes of pleading, harassing and threats. Sometimes they act aloof, like they are doing you a favor by showing you places that truly should be condemned by the Health Department. I guess it takes all kinds.

Then they try to educate you on what the procedure is for a short sale. Condensed version:
So, what you're saying is, we are going to make an offer on this heap of concrete blocks with a roof on it. The bank is going to decide if the outrageous amount of money they are asking for is enough for us to take it and gut it to begin again. And they can take months to decide. Great. I think I am ready for my lobotomy without anesthesia. That is one of the many services you provide as well, no?

Angie and I will continue to do the preliminary looking for the next couple of weeks, shrieking or napping toddlers and all.

But, I think that if she finds the "perfect home" within her price range, she owes me a drink.

Or two.

And definitely some disinfectant.

(Somewhat) Finished...for now...and pictures to boot!

After a week of extreme remodeling, I am somewhat done. I have cleaned out three rooms, three respective closets full of the junk of eleven years and three children. I have had painting and a honey-do list completed with the help of a trustworthy handyman, and I have reorganized and decorated.

The only room that is completely finished is Matthew's, my oldest son. It is funny that he is back in the room that he started in almost ten years ago, bunnies not included. He wanted a more sophisticated look, I guess, along with dark green walls. Um, no to green walls, yes to no more bunnies...You be the judge regarding sophistication...

BEFORE:

AFTER:

And on a budget, not counting that I paid for the paint job. Considering what I was covering up, I think it was well worth every penny not to have done it myself.

The younger boys' room is still a work in progress. I am a stickler for keeping things as fair as possible. I had a hard time trying to find something Andrew, middle son, would like, so I kept what they had. Pretty boring, but until I can find something affordable and that we both (actually, all three of us, because Joshua needs to have some kind of say in it, no?) can live with, it will stay this plain. Still, an improvement from having bunk beds which are all kinds of wicked to have to change sheets for a 5' 1" vertically challenged person like me. Don't even get me started on what it's like to clean vomit from the top bunk, using only that little, narrow ladder. Is it pathetic that I am looking forward to changing sheets on these beds?

AFTER:

But the crown jewel is the playroom/boy cave. Andrew, in the negotiations, got to pick what was going in that room since he would still have to share a room with Joshua. There are still some old (as in fifteen year old, they are NEVER going to boot up again) carcasses computers that need to be shucked and miscellaneous slides, old 8mm movies from my childhood (fear not, these have been converted to the 21st century) that need to be stored. Here is what we came up with.

AFTER:

Next up, Mommy and Daddy's closet and the evil fashion disasters that lurk there; disasters that Stacy and Clinton from What Not To Wear would surely crucify me for and the dreaded garage.

But truly, what happiness to see my boys' faces upon their arrival home from their weeklong visit to Grandma and Granddaddy's. To hear their remarks on the items in their rooms, how I had recycled some stuff that we already had, how everything was arranged for them and their enjoyment.

And EXTREME happiness that the bulk trash is coming on Friday, people...and I am going to get my money's worth this month!

Table for one at the Pity Party

Oh, people, it has been quite a week. Between the Money Pit, my three year old's constant vacillation between "I want to/I don't want to" and the older two boys constant fighting and bickering, I think I would like to be in a nice, quiet padded room.

Sure, I am off from school. I am down one full time job. But honestly, there have been a couple of times this week when I have snuck off to the closet for a quiet, desperate sob.

This is why we aren't cool as parents.

Perhaps it is my own fault. Because I planned for doctor's appointments this week, anticipating that it would basically suck, but after the week was over, no more constraints from the appointments. Because I went to clean up that darned apartment to FINALLY get it rented and I found yet more water where there wasn't supposed to be any. Maybe it's because my three year old can't make up his mind one way or the other about anything. Maybe it's because I am tired of running interference with the older two.

Regardless of whatever the cause, I am tired. Drained. Frustrated. Angry. Sad. Anxious. Fed up.

Whenever Joshua pulls the standard "But I don't want to," I want to jump up and down like Rumplestilskin and have a holy fit. I don't want to deal with a house in need of repairs. I don't want to hear my children fighting. I don't want to spend day in and day out cleaning after people, waiting for Joshua to use the potty, waiting for the plumber that doesn't show up, the realtor who won't call, the messes that don't get cleaned up.

And don't even ask what it is I do want, because right now, I don't even know.

But I do know what I don't want.

I don't want to feel this tired, this frustrated right now. I don't want to holler at my children because they won't listen to me. I don't want to send Joshua to the potty, only to find him standing in front of it, his pants drenched in urine.

There is no magical wrap up here today. No wise words of lessons learned.

Just one tired, frazzled mother of three boys, sitting at a table for one at the Pity Party.

Can Hoarders and Purgers live in harmony?

I am a Purger. I like to live as clutter-free as I possibly can, even though I have three boys who seemed to have come forth from the womb with closets full of stuff. Every few months, I start getting an itch to clean out closets, the garage, the kitchen cabinets, the bathroom cabinets, etc. Nothing in the world makes me happier than to see the floor in rooms, in closets, and the garage.

I, however, married a Hoarder. From a long line of Hoarders.

My husband likes to keep every last little thing, in the hopes that one day it will be useful again, or because so and so gave it to him. Using that incredible logic, our once near empty house now has closets and a garage busting at the seams. There is crap everywhere, in all kinds of disarray, without rhyme or reason.

While this used to drive me insane when we first got married, I have learned to respect his need to keep stuff. That is not to say that I don't hold on to some mementos of my own; my wedding dress, cards and letters from my sweetheart, my children's artwork from preschool (which, by the way, makes a lovely bathroom display). But I don't keep everything.

In order to illustrate this meeting (and marrying) of extremes, in one of my purging frenzies when John and I had been married just about six months, I decided to clean out the downstairs closet. In the enormous amount of stuff that was in there, I found a full trash bag. I was on my way out to the garbage can to dump it when my husband starts running after me, desperately waving his hands and yelling at me to stop. The prized contents of that black trash bag was his CD box collection (that someday would be worth a lot of money, if he could only part with it). I looked at him in disbelief and compromised that he could keep part of it: the part that fit into a cardboard box.

Crisis averted, but not for long. You see, my husband collects a lot of stuff. I think that particular bit of information should have been disclosed prior to the priest officiating over our wedding vows, but it is a little late now. Somehow, keeping something like his Calculus notebook from high school brings him some kind of joy.

I often wonder if he has kept me as long as he has because he REALLY loves me, or if he just can't bring himself to walk away...I don't want to find out, though.

He has gotten better over the course of fourteen years. Compromise has reigned supreme. And we have been respectful of each other. There are times I turn a blind eye. And to his credit, John has adjusted well to the twice a year "this house is a mess" purge.

But sometimes, the need to purge is just too great. There is so much stuff, and not enough places to keep it, and keep it organized. Many friends over the years have suggested that I just dump the loot when he is at work. "He'll never know," they have stated. But I would know. I wouldn't want my things tossed in the trash without a tearful good bye from me. I respect his need to keep what he likes. But everything has their limit. And our house has reached its capacity limit.

And there are too many people. It seems that much like green eyes, intelligence and allergies, my children have inherited the hoarding gene too. When you have three of a kind, the natural thing to do is to save clothing, toys, and books along with big ticket baby paraphernalia. But Joshua is three. The hardest thing I have ever done is give away the double stroller, all the teensy baby clothes that I had kept for so long. But I did it. To make room for the new, the now, the present.

My project this summer is to move Matthew into his own room, dismantle the guest room into a playroom/boy cave, and redesign the room that Andrew and Joshua will now share by themselves. That takes a lot of clearing out and getting rid of stuff. Matthew started trembling at the sound of cleaning out three weeks ago.

"But what will happen to all the old stuff?" he asked.

I explained that what toys were appropriate and in good condition would be donated to Joshua's school, the remainder in good condition would go to Goodwill, the rest, the trash.

He didn't seem too convinced. Just like Daddy.

And then I explained that in life, there are times when we need to discard the stuff that is not useful and keeps us from improving our lives. Bad habits, like eating junky food and sitting on the couch, should be tossed. Eating healthy foods and engaging in exercise should replace the bad. "Mommy is trying to be healthy. She is getting up early to go to an early exercise class to lose some weight and be strong, " I said.

I think that got his attention. Just like Daddy.

Of course, there are things that should never be discarded. The kindness of others. The elders in a family, with their stories, wisdom and love. Photographs and letters. Priceless heirlooms that help define where a family has been, has chronicled their evolution from the past into the present and into the future.

I think that is John's hesitation. He thinks that by keeping everything, perhaps we can make time stand still and keep our boys at the delicious age they are at. That we can keep ourselves from aging too much. That by eliminating some of the stuff, somehow, the precious stuff will be lost too.

But I like to think that we will have all the memories our hearts can hold, that photographs can document, that video can help us reminisce. We will have each other; he and I, our children, their wives, someday; their children.

In the meantime, the clutter will ebb and flow. He will slowly hoard and I will gently purge. To make room for the new, to make room for the truly special. For the here and now.

And really, to keep us from having mountains of junk inside and outside of our house, covered in blue tarp and with cameras rolling to capture for all of the States to see as it is all put on display.

'Cause, at the rate we are going, we are about five years from that...