Neotoma Cinerea

That's Latin for Pack Rat.

Wikipedia says a person who is a packrat is a compulsive hoarder. That's me in a nutshell. Now, in all fairness, I was raised by compulsive hoarders. My parents never got rid of anything on the off chance that it might be necessary at some later point or possibly come back in style. They are the reason why I a) hardly ever throw stuff away, and b) feel really guilty when I do.

After my linen closet epiphany, I decided I could do with a spring cleaning in that area. I went through my towels and sheets and realized that I had every single towel I'd ever owned, starting with the two sets I got as high school graduation gifts. Considering that my20-year reunion was 3 1/2 years ago, I've held on to those towels a long time. I got rid of sheets that went to a bed I don't own anymore, sheets that never really fit the bed we own now, sheets that I only have the top sheet for, and pillowcases that go with nothing in any bedroom whatsoever. I bagged up the ivory towels that have turned dingy, the green towels with the bleach stains, the other green towels with the brown marks on them that won't come out. I got rid of their matching hand towels and most of the washcloths, too. All together I filled two kitchen garbage bags with linens and took them all to Goodwill. I only saved about 5 old towels for clean up jobs and garage use. Everything else went bye bye.

I can take things in and out of my linen closet and nothing else falls out when I do. It's brilliant.

But that's not the end of the story.

I happened to mention this little act of purging to my mother and her reaction was one of distress and alarm. Did I not know that old towels were useful in the garage and other places? I assured her I did. Did I think that maybe I'd want those double bed sheets someday if one of the kids decided they wanted a double? I informed her that if one of them wanted a double bed someday, they could pay for it themselves as we have already provided them with a perfectly serviceable single bed. But what if we needed it someday for a guest room? I told her I'd buy new sheets if that were the case. At this point she subsided, but I could tell she was not entirely convinced of my sanity.

So it's not just that I have to muster the guts to get rid of the stuff, I have to be sufficiently on my game to explain why I got rid of it as well. Pretty big task for someone with so few functioning brain cells.

The Anthem of Adolescence

Nobody understands me.

I know I sang this song repeatedly from about age 14 until age 23 (late bloomer, ya know). Now I find myself singing it again and I have the same basic sense of ill-usage coupled with a desperate yearning to be understood which is patently not being fulfilled.

All of which gives one cause to wonder whether I've evolved much since age 14.

Everyone -- no exceptions -- is excited about this move but me. Try as I will, I cannot seem to muster any whoop-de-do.

I have, however, come to view it as fait accompli: it's going to happen and I am going to have to deal with it one way or another. I am trying not to do that with excessive kicking and screaming.

Fact: this house is too small for our family. In about a year, when Maggie will be out of the highchair, we will not all five be able to sit down to a meal together because our eat-in kitchen is too small for a standard size table. Tim and I can't really fit our stuff into the closet we share; it's all over the floor of our room, almost all the time.

Fact: this house is not soundproof enough for our family. Normal conversation in the kitchen is enough to wake Maggie, whose room is directly above. Sound from the living room is funneled up the stairs. If Tim watches TV downstairs, I can hear it crystal clear in our bedroom. The shower wakes Maggie up in the morning; the toilet wakes up Abby Kate (their rooms are on either side of the bathroom).

Fact: we have probably done all we can do to this house. We've redone all the flooring, much of the lighting, the wiring, the driveway, the garage, the kitchen and both bathrooms. We also replaced 1/3 of the windows and installed a sump pump. When you consider what we paid for this house and what we've put into it, we're probably not going to make that much on the sale.

Fact: we are fast approaching the years when Tim and I are going to need more privacy. He would argue we're already there, but I think we probably have another year or two before it's critical. Right now we have one full bath that we share among the 5 of us. I can't remember the last time I showered without an audience of some kind.

Fact: I have a kick-butt garden and nobody feels its loss but me.

Fact: we have too much stuff and moving is going to really help us pare down and get rid of things. I was at a girfriend's the other day and in her linen closet were 4 towels and some washcloths. She actually had empty shelves. In my linen closet, you can't remove a hand towel without several other things falling out. As I looked in that nearly empty closet, I had a moment of clarity about what my life would be like without so much stuff.

I would feel better if we could just move and be done with it. Waiting around for the closing and having to deal with selling this house is too upsetting. I need to just rip the bandaid off.

And now we resume your regularly scheduled panic attack...

I don't know why I am feeling tight and clammy again, but there we are. It would make more sense if there were a nice predator around, you know: grizzly bear, man-eating shark, Mitt Romney campaigners. Then the panic would have a purpose. A nice, let's-get-the-heck-out-of-here-NOW purpose. Instead, it seems only to rob me of sleep. And of course, it's occurring because I am moving into a larger, nicer house. Oh, yes, it's all coming clear to me now... I AM AN IDIOT.

I've had a day in which I could not get motivated to do anything. I basically drove kids to school, put the baby down for a nap and proceeded to lie on the couch for nearly 2 hours. I slept a little, thought a lot, read for a bit. Could have been packing boxes, could have been making lists of things we need to do tomorrow during the do-or-die work day, but didn't.

And Tim is now on the couch with a migraine, so I will be single parenting tonight. How dare he have a genuine illness which prevents me from being the basket case? How am I going to have my panic attack later if he's writhing and moaning in pain? I guess it's an hour on the treadmill and a 12-hour antihistimine instead. I hate having to be the bigger person.

Coping

I have turned the corner on my grief, I think. I feel more optimistic, at least. It helps that I did some stuff in the garden this weekend to try to ensure I'll have at least some of the stuff in my new place. I am having to reconcile myself to the fact that I will have to purchase a number of plants -- like all the clematis, which don't transplant well -- but I started some rose cuttings, and the roses would be the most expensive to replace. I moved pieces of my grandma's peonies, though whether they'll make it is anybody's guess, and I lifted a few hostas.

I must have had a premonition about this move, because I actually took some rose cuttings about 3 weeks ago, before we even thought we'd be able to make an offer. I was really encouraged to find that fully 80% of them have already begun to root. I am using the baggie method, which can sometimes be dicey, but since they're going to have to live in my mom's sunroom for the winter, I needed to be sure they'd have enough moisture without constant attention. The closed environment of the baggie will give them that. Here's what I rooted:

Abraham Darby
Kathryn Morley
Ambridge Rose
Sharifa Asma
The Prince
Heritage
Eglantine
Mary Rose
Falstaff

I did not take cuttings from The Pilgrim, Jacqueline DuPre, Comte du Chambord, Winchester Cathedral or Sydonie, either because they had no ripe wood, or because what they had was covered with blackspot and unlikely to survive. Jacqueline DuPre has always been miserable in my garden,stunted and stingy with bloom. Wouldn't you know it, she had a banner year this year. Grew to 2.5 feet and bloomed 3 times. Stupid plant. I am not buying her tricks, although I love her wild rose look. If she throws another bloom before frost I might be tempted to take a cutting.

The Pilgrim is one that I saw in a garden in England where it was utterly stunning -- an ethereal pale yellow with a darker center. Here it just fades to nearly white after about 30 minutes in the sun. If I got up at 5 a.m. routinely, I could see it as I remembered it from England, but I'd rather just sleep. Also it throws out 7 foot canes and then blooms right at the top, which looks dumb. I could peg it, but since I'm not all that thrilled with it, I don't bother.

The Comte is another one that has never done well in my garden. The plant itself is fine, but the blooms always ball if it's even a little wet and it is a thrips magnet. I have always considered myself lucky to get a handful of unmaimed bloom over the course of the season. Of course, it's had its best year ever in my garden, blooming often and beautifully with no balling and no thrips. Whatever. I'm leaving it behind.

Winchester Cathedral performs well, but I am just not that into white roses. It does occasionally sport to blush pink and even to bright pink (not really a sport, that. It's reverting back to Mary Rose, of which it is itself a sport). Not interesting enough to take along, though.

Sydonie I like very much. An old Damask Perpetual and tough as nails, it throws tons of bloom in the spring and sort of pegs itself -- the canes bend outward and it breaks along the length for even more bloom. Unfortunately it is awash in blackspot. I may buy this one again. It's really big, though, so I'll have to see if I have room for it at the new place.

Planning makes me feel better.