In my attempt to restore order to my basement office closet (which has resulted in me turning the office itself into a giant dumping ground), I decided to go through a humongous plastic container of memorabilia. High school yearbooks, scrapbooks, pictures, awards, videos and god-only-knows what else has been calling this home for many years.
Clearly I was born to scrapbook because I had at least six from 1987-1991, plus another one from 1993. Fortunately time (and OCD) have made me better able to pare down the items I keep. As a teenager I kept everything. Every note. Every card. Every concert ticket. Every sticker. And that, over the course of 4 years of high school, is a lot of shit.
But as I was going through this stuff, reading cards and setting aside photos with which to embarrass classmates at next year's 20-year reunion, I became overwhelmed with how little all of this means. These things---notes, deflated balloons, retreat letters, ticket stubs, stickers, mentions in newspapers---that some 20+ years ago I thought were worth remembering, I did not remember. And now they don't matter one iota.
That made me feel sad. And old. And finite. And minute.
I felt like crying because it was the first time I have ever felt like an adult with a definite timeline to my life. A full-fledged grown-up. A mom to 3 kids, one of whom is already closer to age 7 than age 6. And before too very long she will be in high school. Because each school year passes in a blink....just as they did for me when I was a child.
It made me feel so appreciative of the moments I have with my children in all their sweet littleness. It made me see just how old my parents are growing. It made me feel all muddled inside.
There is something to be said for feeling to your core that you know what really matters.
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