AUTHOR: Sheri Lynch TITLE: Clutter DATE: 4/13/2005 05:18:00 PM ----- BODY:

We are in the process of trying to de-clutter our house. This is an experience comparable to throwing your guts up. It's so miserable while it's happening that the relief that follows almost passes for joy. So far, we've tackled eight closets, five rooms, two chests of drawers, a bookcase, a toy box, and a spot in the kitchen that could best be described as the Bermuda Triangle. That last was so treacherous that we've only just recently abandoned the search for January's mortgage bill. The volume of paper that comes into our house every single day is staggering. There's the mail, including catalogs, magazines, and so many coupons for Pizza Hut that we're beginning to suspect them of running a mind control experiment on us. Add to that the pile of drawings and paintings that Olivia and Caramia churn out daily, along with the load of paperwork and sex/diet/get rich quick books that I bring home every afternoon from the radio station. We try so hard to control the load, but before you can recycle last week's TIME magazine, you might want to actually read it, right? And how on earth can I just callously chuck into the garbage bin Olivia's mixed-media collage, Mommy As A Mad Robot? Are we really expected to discard her washable marker portrait, Daddy Eats Yellow Eggs Next To The Happy Sun? You'd have to be completely heartless to part with such treasures. The problem was, our house was exploding at the seams. Heartless or not, something had to be done. It didn't help matters any that I have a compulsion for hoarding. Toilet paper, soap, paper towels, peanut butter, toothbrushes, instant lemonade -- we had enough of each to equip a platoon. Worse, I couldn't stop myself from buying more. I'd have a killer coupon, or there'd be an unbelievable sale on Charmin or Crystal Light, a sale so good that it'd be crazy not to stock up. I admit it: I'm addicted to bargains. When I walk into a Costco or a B.J.'s, my adrenaline soars like a gambler's in Las Vegas. That little plastic membership card burns in my hand, and what I feel is an intoxicating mix of power and good fortune. I wheel my cart from aisle to aisle in a blissful trance. And then, in triumph, I haul my score home. Mix an impoverished childhood, a tendency toward anxiety, and free access to a warehouse store, and you'll get our bathroom closet. Thirty bars of soap, an entire pallet of toilet paper, bucket-sized bottles of Tylenol, an acre of shampoo, and a case of Mentadent are all proof of at least one nut in this house who plans to never run out of anything again. Comforting as it was to know that we had enough crunchy Jif, Glad Kitchen Liners, and Puffs with Lotion to last us through most any natural or man-made disaster, there was no denying that we were rapidly running out of space to store all of the things we were busily collecting. You couldn't open a door without something falling out and bonking your head; you couldn't take a step without tripping over a child's book, a stuffed animal, or a pair of shoes. It was time for serious, dramatic action. Our first step was to shuffle all of the kid's bedrooms. We moved Eric into Caramia's room, giving him his own bathroom and thus sparing him five or six years of showering with My Pretty Pony. Olivia took over Eric's old room, and Caramia moved into Olivia's. A move this extreme forced us to unearth every stray Lego piece, every marble, every last Matchbox car, hair barrette, and plastic teacup that had cunningly concealed itself under the beds, dressers, and chairs in the hopes of driving us out of our minds. We even managed to reunite all twenty-six pieces of the baby's alphabet puzzle, a major vindication for the dog who'd long been accused of having scarfed up the letter "o". Next we tackled closets. Everything outgrown, both clothes and toys, went to Goodwill. I designated certain shelves for board games, others for puzzles, dolls, and tea sets. We were ruthless with our own things. "That shirt makes you look like a tomato," I told Mark. "You need to get rid of it." He responded by pointing to my towering stack of freebie radio t-shirts, saying, "Not until you toss at least half of those." Bit by bit, we weeded through the piles. By the time we were finished, our closet actually looked like a closet, and not the bulging hideout of a crazed shut-in. We ran the same blitzkrieg on the other bedroom closets, and then on the hall closet. It was both scary and sobering to realize just how much stuff we had, and how little of it we actually used or even genuinely needed. Then there were the things we did need, but hadn't been able to find, like snow mittens small enough for Caramia, and the plastic cap for our patio umbrella. Sorting through drawers and boxes, I couldn't even remember why we'd squirreled some of these things away in the first place. For what rainy day was I saving a bright yellow plastic cowboy hat with the word "Beefy" emblazoned across it? The only answer that makes any sense at all is temporary insanity. That, or maybe I should have taken a few less Vicodin after my last c-section. We still have a long, long way to go in the war against clutter. But now we're committed to keeping only the essentials, only those very few things that we absolutely can't live without. Like the disposable hospital scrubs that Mark wore in the delivery room back in May 2001. And a box full of old car magazines, some coins Mark collected as a kid, and his first cycling jersey. Then there are the baby sweaters that his late grandmother knitted, needlework pieces made by his mom, a US Navy coffee cup that belonged to my Pop-Pop, and, carefully folded in a box upstairs, a cheerleading uniform that I wore back in tenth grade. There is a huge box full of artwork, soccer certificates, and camp and school citations all bearing Eric's name. We've got an identical box for each of the girls, along with their baby books and photo albums. Oh, and a few of their favorite baby toys. And all of their Halloween costumes. And some seashells they've collected on trips to the beach. Our house is never going to look like one of those perfect, fantasy homes from a shelter magazine. We're never going to be that smooth, airbrushed couple sipping cocktails while gazing at a breathtaking view of Manhattan, the ocean, or our own vineyard. Our usual view is of a great, big pile of unfolded laundry -- and breathtaking as it is, you'll never see that in Architectural Digest. But we do have plenty of toilet paper, loads of crayons, and Mommy As A Mad Robot hanging on the kitchen wall. That's not clutter - that's the good life.

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