Sorthing Clothes (as opposed to the Sorting Hat)

Over the years as Alyssa outgrew clothes, I’d set them aside (sometimes in boxes, sometimes in…piles) for Olivia to grow into.

And then, when O would outgrow those very clothes, I’d box them up for Tom’s oldest granddaughter, Hope.

Both of Tom’s sons have three kids each. The oldest had boy, girl, boy and the youngest had boy, boy, girl. The youngest grandchild/daughter (Ella) is five. Hope turned 11 this month.

All of Tom’s grandkids are on the small side. His sons are small and they had children with small women, so these clothes can sometimes sit for up to six months after I’ve boxed them up and there is still a good chance they’ll fit Hope.

I’ve already told Hope’s mom that if something doesn’t work for them, they are free to do what they will with the clothes. Once they’re out of our house, they are no longer my problem concern.

Recently there was a big pile of clothes in Olivia’s room. It has been accumulating for a couple of months.

Feeling motivated and not wanting to lose that sense of momentum, I asked Tom for some boxes into which I could neatly fold these clothes.

He is the keep of the boxes in our house since he’s the one who packs items to be shipped after selling them on Ebay.

He agreed to scrounge up some boxes. As he walked away he said, “This might be the last clothes we send to Hope, right?”

He suggested that at her age, Olivia will more than likely stop outgrowing her clothes soon and whatever we buy her from this point forward should continue to fit her until she either wears it out or hates it and refuses to wear it anymore.

I agreed that that was a definite possibility.

Olivia is about 5’4” tall these days and weighs the appropriate amount for that height.

Sorry, Hope and Hope’s parents, the days of surprise boxes of clothes from Grandpa Tom are almost over.

Peace for Liv

We’re struggling over here.

Three days in a row I’ve arrived home to find Olivia in tears.

She’s obsessed with death and her fears of my death and her dad’s death and her Gram’s death and Alyssa’s death. She wishes God would let us see heaven without having to die.

She asked me if some people choose to die.

I try to answer all her questions honestly but I also want to answer them in ways that are appropriate for her age and maturity.

It breaks my heart that she’s so sad.

She asked me if crying is the best/only way for a person to release pain in their heart.

Yes.

I told her that crying is absolutely the best way to release pain in your heart. I am not going to tell her that there are people who cut themselves because they say it releases emotional pain. OMG. Can you imagine? I mean, I already put nine Band-Aids on her fingers every single night so that she doesn’t lay in her bed and pick at her cuticles until they bleed. And some nights, she takes the Band-Aids off after I’m asleep and picks anyway. So…yeah.

I’m so glad she’s talking to us. I’m glad she can verbalize her pain and share with us what triggers her. She says she misses Auntie Nell. Nell is the only person she’s been even remotely close to who has died. She was so sad for Nell to have died and left everyone here. I told her that it’s okay to be sad for herself that she misses Auntie Nell but Nell is as peace. She’s no longer suffering and she’s happy in heaven with her daughter and her brothers and sister.

When I tucked in her into bed on that third night of jagged crying and near hysterics, I prayed over her. I prayed aloud for God to heal her heart and for the angels to come and give her peace.

I also ended up upping her dose of Lexapro in hopes of calming her anxiety.

We went to bed early that night in hopes that a decent night’s sleep would help too.

If you’re the praying kind, please add my girl to your list.

Memories...All Alone...

My earliest memory is from when I was still sleeping in a crib.

We lived in a house in Metz, Indiana, a place so small that there wasn’t a post office. The only form of commerce was the Pepsi machine that stood outside the volunteer fire departments garage.

I slept in a crib that was under a west-facing window. I’d wake up from my afternoon naps and lay there, watching the dust motes float lazily in the rays of sun shining in the window. I could hear my mom outside the room, sometimes in the hall, sometimes in another room, humming. She often had a laundry basket on her hip.

I’d wait for her to come check on me. She’d approach the crib slowly and smile when she saw me awake, saying softly, “Oh, you’re awake.”

I always felt so safe in that home with that lady. I always knew she’d be glad to see me.

I was a November baby, so this memory (or conglomeration of memories) is probably from when I was seven or eight months old. I say that because the weather seems warm in my memories, like summer time.

I have a scar on my right hand. The injury that resulted in that scar happened in the house where my first memories were built. We must have lived there until I was a toddler because my mom says the scar happened when I was maybe a year and a half. We were outside on the front stoop of that first house. My mom was sitting on one of the step. I was probably toddling around on the steps too. I started to fall and my mom reached out to stop my fall, forgetting she was holding a cigarette in her hand. The cigarette burned my right hand, leaving a small scar that is there to this day.

I don’t remember that moment though.

I also have a scar just below my bottom lip. I don’t remember getting this one either but my mother reports that this scar was the result of me being a bit of a brat. I wanted lunch and I wanted NOW. I was small enough to be in a highchair with a tray. She told me it would be ready soon. I didn’t want ‘soon’ I wanted ‘now’. When she didn’t produce food right that second, I threw my head against the tray. I put my bottom teeth (probably the only teeth I had at that time) through my lower lip.

My mom pulled my lip off my teeth, blotted the blood and fed me. She was one tough lady.

I have two younger brothers. My closest sibling is my brother who is four and a half years younger than I am. But I didn’t grow up isolated with just a brother or two. We had cousins galore. We were never, ever lonely.

My mom and her sisters basically raised us as if we were all siblings. There was always someone around to do something with, even if it was just playing with Matchbox cars in the dirt outside beneath the boxelder tree.

And yet with all those cousins and brothers, I had plenty of time alone too. I hit a tennis ball against the roof of our house. I swung on the tire swing so much I had calluses on my hands. I created all these stories in my head, riding my bike as if it were a horse through the town.

My parents divorced when I was eleven. My dad moved three houses away. He was always just up the street.

I guess you could say I had an idea childhood. I was so, so lucky. So very blessed.

I hope with all my heart that someday, my girls feel that way about their childhood.