Get a Room

Envy is a funny thing.  It is a powerful feeling that can spur on actions...some good, some bad.  One thing that holds true for me is when I am truly envious, I only see the part of the picture.  Driving home from Detroit the other day, I was super jealous of my best friend since fourth grade.  I love her like a sister, but man, I was wanting her life.

 For starters, her four absolutely beautiful children are all still alive, which is something I envy of everyone around me...even my own mother.  Secondly, she is a stay at home mom, which means she gets to be fully present as they grow and change.  When her children are grown, they won't remember waiting anxiously for the key to turn in the door, desperate to hear her call out, "Babies!  I'm home!", as I still do to this day, unable to stop this engrained habit.  Every time I do it, my heart is fractured a tiny sliver, and I try to comfort myself by pretending I meant Jake and the pets, and not Jake and Cory.  For the record, my heart is not fooled.

And lastly, she has been involved with the same man, the father of all her children, since she was a teenager.  He worships her, which was plainly evident when she led me down to her "scrapping corner", a peaceful little alcove of their basement that he had fixed up just for her.  This was her place to go when she needed to recharge, when she wanted to dream, when she needed to be alone...or as alone as one could possibly be with four children wandering around the house.  My eyes greedily ate up all the careful details...the pegboard, the hooks, the shelving, the lighting...and could see love and commitment flowing directly from her husband's hands onto all that wood and hardware.

As I said earlier, though, I only see part of the picture.  As envious as I was of these things, I didn't stop to think about how they came to be.  To be a stay at home mom meant sacrifice, financially and personally.  To be available to your children twenty four hours a day does not leave a lot of leisure time or time to be with other adults.  Her long-standing marriage is admirable, but I wasn't even considering what challenges had brought her to this point, what concessions had been made on both sides.  And the scrapping corner?  Well, I'm betting a couple of my favorite purses' price tags could outfit one quite nicely.  Maybe I needed to continue resetting my priorities.  As far as having the man who would set it up for me?  I strongly suspected he was at home, painting the front of the house, and keeping an eye on our son, while I went to visit with a friend and tried to feel better.  "Go have fun, honey" is his most frequently used phrase.

So the next day, napping as I fell back into depression, my friend and her husband began texting me about making the toy room off the living room into a little makeshift art studio.  "You just tell Tim if he won't do it, we're coming down.  Hell, I could move that train table by myself...on my back."

I giggled.  I just bet she could.  Was there really anything my giggle sister couldn't do?

Tim, who has been doing little projects lately- tangible proof that he is feeling so much better since he started seeing Dr. Z and got his meds adjusted-jumped all over the idea.  I'm not sure if he was eager to have all my art crap off the dining room table so he'd have more room to savor his daily takeout or if he was deliriously excited to see something -anything- that put a spark in my eye and a genuine smile on my face.

That is how Tim and I ended up knee deep in toys from both the children's childhoods last night.  Jake, who starts middle school in two days, held fast to his nerf guns, lego sets, and our collection of  boardgames- just in case he ever wants to go old school and peel his eyes away from the computer screen. 

Cory's things were handled reverently.  Her favorite childhood toys were placed high on a shelf where I could see them if I needed to.  Her other stuffies and American Girl accessories were tubbed to store in her room.  I had mixed feelings about this.  In one way, I was simply cleaning out toys which should've been went through some time ago, and because I was doing Jake's, also, it hardly seemed like I was "going through her things".  But on the other hand, with her gone, each item her hand had touched -whether eight years ago or not- was so incredibly precious.  I found myself holding a pink, plastic Little Pony hairbrush, paralyzed, unable to decide whether or not it was a keeper. 

Typical of a recovering hoarder, I cleared out an area, and simply moved the objects from one place to another.  Cut me some slack, people, I am doing the best I can.  In the end, some of Jake's baby toys made their way to the garage where they can be donated.  That is progress.

I made it a good hour and a half before I broke down.  What telling object caused my meltdown?  Cory and I had watched Camp Rock on the Disney channel about fourteen times.  She had the Selena Gomez doll that sang the theme song.  Feeling a sharp pang in my heart, I pushed on Selena's chest.  Her voice blared, "This is real.  This is me.  I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be..."  In a rush, I was transported back to sitting cross legged on our red couch, sharing a blanket, giggling with my girl.    I could almost turn my head and see her smiling face.  Horror.  Just horror.  My entire face just sagged, and the hoarse sobs began.  Tim was in the garage making more room. 

I clutched Selena and wailed loud enough to scare the cats, pulling myself into the smallest ball my body would make. 

"Okay.  Okay.  Come here."  said a voice from the door.  In strode my niece, still in her work attire.  She knelt down, all barely five feet of her, and gathered me, sweaty and crying, into her embrace.  "We're gonna do this.  I'm going to help.  Come on, girl.  We can do it."

She held the doll out to me, "Keep or send away?"

Between sobs, I blurted out passionately, "We have to keep her...she's Selena Gomez!"

Just like that, there was laughter again.  Alisha stayed another hour or so, patiently sorting through all the stuffed animals that made my heart ache.  When we had made more progress than I had thought possible, she sat with me while I ate a pastry.  Somewhere, Cory was looking down and smiling.

As I tried to get to sleep, I realized this was a big step, setting up this little space.  It meant that I considered myself an artist, and that I thought enough of my work to dedicate a special space to do it.  More importantly, it meant I was, in some small way, setting a goal for the future.  Maybe sitting in my former toy room, listening to music and painting with Cory's artwork surrounding me wasn't a lot, goal wise, but it was measurably better than wishing I was dead.

Wasn't it?

One thing I know, Cory wants to see me be brave.