I’m a clutter whore.
I keep anything and everything. It used to drive the OCD man crazy.
If Devon hadn’t have come out of the closet, our differences on our housekeeping philosophies would have driven us apart, I’m sure of it. But you know, gay trumps clutter any day.
So when it finally came time to move out of our foreclosed home, I had been living there by myself for nearly a year. The house was disgusting with piles of ka-ka everywhere. I even had kept my Christmas tree up until April. No shit. I think I kind of rebelled against him in a twisted way with my new-found freedom of not having to keep the place neat and orderly all the time. I now despise June Clever, who wore prim and proper little dresses with pearls and carried a vacuum in her purse.
Like seriously, I pretty much didn’t fold one ounce of laundry for I think 5 months. Ask my kids. I would simply fish through a Mt. Everest of clean laundry everyday in order to get dressed. They used to lie on it like a giant Lovesac and watch Hannah Montana.
I’ll bet it was uber comfy.
Wait. Who am I kidding? I would still be doing that today if my oldest daughter didn’t like to fold laundry so much (this is beyond my understanding). Thank you, Devon, for passing on that mutant gene.
You can only imagine what it was like when it came time to sort through household junk and decide what he would keep and what I would keep. I pretty much just wanted to leave it all there and start over. I considered pulling a trailer trash move and walking away from everything just so I wouldn’t have to sort through and organize things.
Devon’s solution was to come over when I wasn’t there to find the things he wanted. I was glad about that arrangement. I definitely didn’t want to hear a lecture from him about my slovenly ways. I’m sure he took a look around, baby barfed a few times on the dry brown lawn, and set to work. I had already given him a list of things I definitely wanted and set a few things aside.
But, that damn wedding album.
That was a doozy. I really didn’t want the stupid thing because at the time, I was still really struggling with my hurt and anger. He didn’t want it that badly either because it made him cry. Actually, everything makes him cry. He’s the biggest bawl baby ever.
But we knew we needed to keep it. You know, our kids really loved that album. For me it produced hurt. For them it produced nostalgia. They loved us both. Without the two of us marrying, they wouldn’t have existed. That is a very amazing thing, really.
I put my hurt aside, he put his tears aside, and we kept it. I gave it to him for safe keeping because I really wanted all of the scrapbooks I had created. There were times that I considered cutting out his face from the pictures out of spite, believe me.
Today, I am so glad we kept it. With time, my hurt healed. We worked on our relationship to make it as amicable as possible, which also took time. Today, I can sit down with the kids and look at that album with them. They can even ask me questions about our first date, what it was like in the hospital when they were born and how Daddy reacted, what our favorite vacations were together as an intact family… and I don’t get sad anymore. That one really took time.
It has been so important to the kids though. When they see that we aren’t bitter toward each other, at least with our demeanor and words, then they feel more secure.
This amicable divorce thing really is for them in the end.
Keep that wedding album, people. You might be glad that you did someday.
Oh, and don’t cut out any faces. That looks freaky.
Here’s a little tune for you. I encourage you to not dig up bones unless you’re looking at your wedding album with fondness… not longing. Randy Travis, “Diggin’ Up Bones”