To the attic

I used to love crossing things off my to-do list. I kept the list partly for the thrill of crossing things off, making up easy jobs some times so I could have the sense of completion later.

Since Colin’s died, the list is less fun. It’s become less about to-do and more about creating this balancing act, of things that ought to be done so we can move on with our lives and of things that we’ve decided to do so we can make a step forward. But none of it is straightforward.

Yesterday, I took the last of his larger toys (we still have a shelf or two of smaller toys) up in the attic. And part of it was for practical reasons. Noah has expressed an interest in taking piano lessons, so we’re looking at renting a piano and, if we do, it needs to go somewhere. The play kitchen and the play workbench were taking up valuable real estate in the living room. And part of it was for mental health, because I kind of did want to stop looking at them. But then there was the part that resisted the move, because clearing the stuff out of the living room – which is probably something we would be doing anyways, if he were still alive, because he would have grown out of these toys in the next year or so anyways – felt like one more affirmation that he was really gone. Like, if we just keep enough stuff of his out in the open, the world will reset and we’ll have him back.

So, I talked about it with Christina and we agreed I’d take it up yesterday. And then we asked the kids if they would have a problem and they said they didn’t. So, I spent a half hour packing it up and moving it upstairs.

Christina showed up in the middle of the operation, and, despite all the groundwork for the move, I still ran downstairs to warn her that, if she went into the living room, the stuff wouldn’t be there any more. I’d shocked her last year when I took down the baby swing faster than she’d anticipated and neither of us wanted that to happen again. She thanked me for the warning.

And then it was done. All the batteries are out of the toy drills. It’s all broken down as small as can be. It’s all covered in drop cloth. You kind of wonder if it’s going to be played with again and, if so, by whom. If I have a grandchild in 30 years, will he or she be impressed by a toy chainsaw (answer: Yes – It’s a toy chainsaw that makes noises for God’s sake)?

I kept the gloves that came with his workbench site. They’re the size his hands were when he died. You can pretend you’re holding his hand if you hold them right.

I keep thinking about writing up more about this experience and it’s posts like this that make me think the most I have to offer is a step-by-step for how you do this and stay a little sane. First you bury him. Then you close his bank accounts. Then you decide how much of his memory you want to leave around the house. And on and on and on. You never stop missing him, but you try to find the balance that will let you keep on living without him even though there’s a part of you that really isn’t all that interested in living without him. You push that part aside, because there are enough people who rely on you and you’re still interested in living, but it’s always there. So I suppose this week’s step was you put away his old toys, but not quite all of them.