|Someone help me: I let her get more.|
What does it tell you that I waited for the last week of the year and took a whole day off from work to get it done? Be afraid, folks, be very, very afraid.
It was a day off carefully chosen for the day after the day after Christmas, when most Americans headed back to work with a new scarf 'round their neck or their tootsies stuffed in brand new socks. I had the benefit of foreseeing Santa's sack overflowing onto my dining room floor and knew: it was time to move things out.
And like any major event, it was not without fanfare.
Like the wails that the hockey cards that were everywhere, bent halves of cardboard sticking out from beneath the dresser, must be kept because "Daaaaddy gaaaaaaaave them to meeeeeee." Yes, he did. Because he was actually going to throw them out two years prior himself. But somehow they'd made their way into her bedroom as floor tiles of a sort. And now they were helping fuel the soundtrack to our cleaning extravaganza.
I turned up the iPod and moved on.
"Hey kid, let's hit the stuffed animal bag," I called, quaking in my (now glitter- and sticker-encrusted) socks as I entered the fray.
Cue the tears.
"Not my stuffed animaaaaaaaaaaaaaals."
Yes, the stuffed animals. One or two of the approximately 576 in the giant green bag had to go. Maybe the Bert from Sesame Street won as a prize at a carnival three years prior and never played with by the now 6-year-old who is (her words) "too old for Sesame Street."
Or maybe the teddy bear with the creepy eyes who freaks her out at night and therefore has spent his entire life in aforementioned green bag?
Of course not! What was I thinking? She needs those. Of course. Right. Silly me shoved a few more hockey cards into the garbage bag while she fell back in love with Creepy McBear. Success!
Oh yes, and we got rid of Bert.
Small victories folks. Small victories.