People with children can count on some unexpected consequences of their decision to reproduce. Adventures, let’s say, that they didn’t exactly dream of when they were gazing lovingly into the eyes of the person they would need some participation from to complete the procreative process.
One of those unintended consequences, of course, was the onset of many years of uninterrupted exhaustion. Another was the opening of a direct, one-way line into the family bank account, much like the tapping of the maple trees in the spring, that would keep the dollars flowing through the financial institution with hardly a chance to stop for a rest.
But the one that has most affected me over the years is the way in which the presence of children make the simple things, well, not so simple anymore.
I refer, in this article, specifically, to how hard it becomes to make any changes whatsoever in the family environment, once the kids become familiar with every nook and cranny of their home. Guilt by the bucketful awaits the parent who re-arranges things or, heaven forbid, discards some treasure which is only a treasure by virtue of the fact that it has been discarded.
So, clutter clearing becomes an exercise in stealth, best performed during hours in which offspring are abstracted and occupied, such as they are, say, in a classroom.
“Out of sight, out of mind” is all a dad has to hang onto sometimes and amazingly, it often works. Articles disappear one by one and providing they aren’t somehow reminded of them, the younger ones leave them behind.
But sneaking things away from the grip of ever-sentimental sons and daughters is not so hard, sometimes, as getting their Dad to give them up. That first trike, first hockey helmet, first two-wheeler bike, first wagon, etc., etc. You finally get up the courage to give them away to a local second-hand shop, but look back longingly as you drive off until they are out of sight. Saying goodbye to a bike or baby buggy is saying farewell to a child who no longer exists, an older, taller version having taken her place.
A mother of three kids told me one time to not be too quick to get rid of things, not to be too efficient at clutter clearing. Kids will use any article they can find as props in their games.
I took this advice to heart with a huge pile of soil that was dumped behind our new shed when a hole was dug to lay the concrete floor a dozen years ago. Every year, I intended to do something with the pile – build up the flowerbeds, give some away, anything, so that the lawn could be nice and flat again. But, alas, the kids discovered it before my good intentions could take effect.
And procrastination, though it rarely pays off, did so this time.
Every winter, the “mountain” became a mini toboggan hill. Every summer, it was used as a fort. Many a brave knight ran up to the top of that mountain and challenged his enemies to a sword fight. Many a slain swordsman fell and rolled down the mountain. Many a participant in hiding games found refuge behind the pile.
But this spring, it seemed time for the mountain to finally go. And so I announced on a recent Saturday that I would be outside taking down the mountain. Not a peep of interest did I hear. I repeated myself. Again, no peep. Tobogganers and mountain climbers had acquired new interests.
Almost every night for two weeks now, my shovel and I have been slowly chopping away at the mountain and, moist from the winter’s snow, it is yielding up its contents easily, as though it too knows it is time to spread its wings.
Each evening, I go back into the house and report my progress on my project. No response. No one has even come out to see what’s going on.
They’ve moved on.
I barely have.
With each cut of the digger, I see those little snowsuits rolling down this side of the hill, or that sturdy caped warrior standing proudly at the summit.
I’m going to miss that mountain. And someday, I’ll bet, my kids will too. And as they are already showing signs of having the family writing bug, I know that someday, some story will begin, “I remember the summer our Dad took down the mountain.”
©2007 Jim Hagarty
