Abbey's Road: Post-school inundation calls for belated spring cleaning

I don’t know why parents of school-age children — especially elementary-age children — bother with spring cleaning in March or whenever it is that people do that kind of thing.

First of all because every Ohioan knows that spring doesn’t begin in earnest until at least mid-April, and if you’re going for “Snow White” spring-cleaning vibes with the windows open and the breeze wafting through the curtains while you sing sweetly to the birds, you may as well wait until May.

If you’re going to wait until May, you may as well wait until the kids are out of school.

Otherwise, it’s like sending your dog out to roll around in the mud and then mopping the floor while he plays. What do you think is going to happen when you let him back inside?

Our school district wraps up at the end of May, and so last week at lunchtime, Mr. Roy and I attended two “clap-outs” at two different schools in the span of an hour and a half.

By the time I pulled into the driveway and everyone exited the minivan, five-months-times-three-kids’ worth of math papers, half-full notebooks, binders of torn paper, pencil boxes, bite mark-riddled writing utensils, half-used erasers, tokens of appreciation from well-meaning friends, classroom decor that teachers generously gifted and so much more had made its way into the only space in our house that serves as a receptacle to that sort of thing.

We call it "The Nook." It’s supposed to be for quaint things like breakfast, but ours is basically Ground Zero.

(I guess middle-class folks in the 1940s, when our home was built, didn’t believe in entryways or closets. But you better believe these plaster walls are going to last until kingdom come.)

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For four days, I let The Nook and its contents ruminate, like the lunchbox with leftovers that Bookworm once left at school over Christmas break. I prepped dinner and stared daggers at the heaps of paper, as if that would somehow make them dissipate.

I walked past it onto the back deck and felt the sting of shame in my chest. I picked up a thing or two, became overwhelmed and put them back down. But the problem never went away.

Could I have asked my kids to do it? Yes, I could. And have. And do.

But here’s the superpower I possess that they, as yet, do not: Selectivity.

I throw things away.

They do not.

This makes my job much easier and aesthetically appealing because rather than look for places to store A+ math papers from January, I … um, recycle them!* If you don’t recycle, you should!

In any case, I would describe myself as more Marie Kondo-influenced than my kids, who think — as I did, at one time — that maybe at some point in the future, their 18-year-old or 30-year-old or 80-year-old selves could have a moment where they think, “Hmm, I would love to look at that paper about kinetic energy from fifth grade!”

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I could sit down and tell them, “Hon, I can pretty much guarantee that at no point in your adult life will you miss this paper about kinetic energy. How about we clear the space for some nice blank paper that you can use for artwork?”

Or I could just … recycle! … the papers that I know they will never miss if they don’t have to go through the process of saying goodbye.

Am I a tyrant who throws away every single thing? No because I happen to possess, in a secret tote in the upstairs hall closet, fourth-grade writing journals that provide fascinating insight into 10-year-old Abbey, and once in a blue moon, I pull them out for a good laugh.

But I am selective. Highly selective. And this is how I regained control of the Nook this week.

Now that it’s summer, will my breakfast space become overrun with stray markers, bits of paper, blobs of glitter glue, Legos and failed origami attempts?

Yes, yes it will.

But I will enjoy the fruits of my belated spring cleaning for now, because I know these messes won’t last forever.

And someday, perhaps, I will miss them.

*The author of this column possesses a certain amount of artistic license in which to make herself appear like a better person than she actually is.

Abbey Roy is a mom of three girls who make every day an adventure. She writes to maintain her sanity. You can probably reach her at [email protected], but responses are structured around bedtimes and weekends.

This article originally appeared on Newark Advocate: Abbey's Road: The end of school means an influx of stuff