That's right

No, I haven't blogged for a long time. So many people are doing it now, I hate being like everyone else.

Eh.

Thanksgiving Pics
We had our official Thanksgiving at Dave's folks' house last weekend... which should be obvious in the photos since our own home is neither this tidy nor this festive.

50,024

Winner! 50,024 words completed at 10:04 pm! With two days to spare!

Enough said... I'm off to have some wine!

Diagnosis: Old and Fat

So yesterday I went to a rheumatologist . For those of you previously unconcerned with the minutiae of my life, I was diagnosed with Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis around age 2 or 3.... sometime following a routine vaccination. Upon reviewing boxes of my childhood medical records sometime last year, I discovered that my parents devoted significant time and resources to conversing with experts as to the likelihood that there was a correlation to the vaccine... but not enough was uncovered for them to justify an attempt at legal recourse.

Nutshell blah blah blah: specialists in Chicago, various drug treatments, a community pharmacist (and family friend) who took the time to crush my medication into individual doses so they could be stirred into my applesauce, a clinic that noted me as "the first child patient" on their roster, one hospitalization in second grade, a permanent excuse slip from gym class for the duration of elementary and junior high and high school, token appearance on a telethon, "remission" at age 18, joint fusion on my wrist at age 21.

Fast forward MANY years to a few months ago: significant pain in my left knee when I'm going up the stairs. Pain in my hips. Pain in my wrists and arms. I wonder if the rheumatism is coming back enough to warrant prescription medication again, so I set an appointment with a rheumatologist.

The good news: it's not the JRA flaring up. I don't need to go on medication.
The other news: The hip? Oh, that's BURSITIS. The joint pain? That's related to wear-and-tear arthritis... a.k.a. osteoarthritis... a.k.a. old person arthritis.

What?

Oh yes, the doc explained... your cartilage and joints were so damaged in your youth that now you're getting old person's arthritis... just a lot earlier.

I looked at the guy, Dr. Kee, who was actually very cool and personable and just a year younger than me and I said, "But I had those ten golden years in my 20s! You know, I was going to step class every single day, lifting weights... I could do almost 400 pounds on the quad lift, you know. Oh, those ten years ...."

And of course, Dr. Kee mentioned that "being overweight" can also make the joints worse. And losing just ten pounds would make a difference (three times. he said it three times). So basically, per the title of this blog entry.... diagnosis: OLD and FAT.

And you know, I can totally deal with that.

But you know when the cold reality set in? As the technician set me up to take MULTIPLE xrays of my hips, I inquired, "What about the lead apron?"

She continued at her work and replied, "That's mostly for young kids, when we're really more concerned about their growth and development."

Goodbye eggs, hello wheelchair.

On a positive note, I'll close by saying that I'm up for the challenge of getting back into healthier eating habits and regular exercise. If it means a future of holding and playing with and keeping up with my little girls—without wincing and limping and constantly stuffing my face with ibuprofen—I'm on board.

Just don't squeeze my knobby hand too hard with your congratulations. Ouch! Granny don't like that.

NaNoWriMo

I signed up to participate in National Novel Writing Month
….the objective being to write a 50,000 word novel in the month of November. Starting November 1, ending November 30, that's the dealio.

I started thinking about story ideas in September. In October, I ceased all reading for pleasure in order to clear my mind. I also decided on a storyline and jotted down a few plot points (allowable, according to the website). And I started writing on November 2. (Why the delay? Because at the end of the day on November 1, I was too cranky and pissed off and thought about canning the whole thing.)

I signed up because I love validation. I love achievement. And the thought of simply being listed as "an official winner" is a huge motivator for me. I am also blessed with the ability to write, as the website calls it, "a lot of crap".

But contrary to what the contest encourages, I didn't shout the news from the rooftops in order to win support and encouragement from everyone I know. I hid my light under a bushel in case it fizzled and went out….

But now that I'm 30,067 words into my story, I'll go ahead and admit that I'm doing it. See? I'm official. (does this really surprise you? coming from the same woman who didn't announce either of her pregnancies until she was 6 months along... just pretending to be a chubster?)

And if that isn't enough narcissistic drivel for you….

I committed myself to writing 1725 words a day, and sometimes the hardest part is figuring out which facet of the story I'm going to work on later that night.

Because the daily task of sitting down to write doesn't even happen until the end of the day—which really means after getting up at 7am, going to work, getting home around 6pm, taking care of the girls, getting the girls to bed, and then achieving a quiet and restful house by about 10pm.

My personal rule is that writing for the day ends at midnight – otherwise, technically I'm already writing into the next day. So getting those words in during the last two hours of the day has been a challenge. Throw in a few interruptions between midnight and 6am from one or both of the girls and that makes for a wild 24 hours.

And sometimes when I finally drop into bed, I spend a little time resenting my main characters. They're so NEEDY! Why do I have to do EVERYTHING for them?! It's like they're sitting around, waiting for me to channel for them, to put the words in their mouths and tell them what to think and do and how to interact with each other. Sheesh. Needy, I tell you. Get a life!

And then I look forward to getting up and doing it again tomorrow.

Oh well, I'll keep you posted.

And now this message

I will now do something this blog has never done before: plug another blog.

So if you will oblige me, please visit my coworker's blog: The Problem With Kevin.

Because he did an amazing recap of my latest adventures with the new iphone. And besides that, he has lovely little recurring columns called Monday Musings and Top Ten Fridays.

No, Kevin, I'm not making fun of you. Sometimes Monday Musings is the thing that gets me into work. It makes me happy.

The best part about Kevin's blog is that one time, not long ago, he got fed up with the backlash that comes from posting thoughtul yet provoking musings. And in sort of a retaliation mode, he decided to do mundane, ridiculous topics for a week... things like recipes and pretty pony pictures.

That was the week one of his guest blogs got linked to ESPN NBA frontpage, and all sorts of people started venturing to Kevin's personal blog to check out this sports expert Kevin. The same day he posted brilliant insights like: "Football - Weirdest shaped ball of all time." Tell me that isn't awesome and hilarious.

Cheers, Kevin. Everyone please go check him out.

I'm just pretending to be a teacher
aka... Here's what happens when you open your big mouth.



You may have noticed, I've been on a rant lately. First, it was the Disney characters that invaded our home (via the diapers… ta-da). Then, it was the costumes at Halloween. Is it because I'm evil and sadistic and I don't want my girls to have any fun? No, it's because I've been doing a lot of reading about marketing to kids.

But why, you ask? Don't you get enough of marketing and advertising at work?

To which I reply, Never! Don't you know me by now?!

After the Disney Incident, I went to our community ed group and said something that has been brewing on my mind for a while:

"Hey guys, how about a class that teaches kids about advertising… basic concepts like what's real and what's not…. And you know, someone in advertising—who's actually worked on campaigns directed at kids—could do it. Someone like me."

Of course, they loved the idea. So a few weeks later, I marched into our planning session with a tiered lesson outline geared towards three groups of kids: primary level, middle school and high school.

And about twenty minutes into our talk, it all changed: they loved the concept, but they thought it would work even better as a Parents' Academy session.

Crikes! You mean now I've got to talk to PARENTS? I've got to stand up in front of other adults, grown-up to grown-up, and come off like some kind of expert? That's a whole new ballgame, people. But sucker that I am, I accepted the challenge.

So now I'm developing a new outline. One that will give parents insider info on marketing strategies that target children, help them learn how to talk to their kids about the ads they see on TV and online, give them some insights as to why kids are the most coveted consumer group and how corporations are…. well, gee, you'll just have to attend my class now, won't you?

Stay tuned. The class is scheduled for April 2008.


PS: Ramona C: this one is for you. Do you remember?

Spooky


Nothing like a commercialized American holiday to make you realize what a truly dorky, old-fashioned, stifling parent you have become.

Tiny E was just two years, three days old when the evil holiday came around this year… so of course, I didn't plan on doing the whole trick-or-treat thing, let alone indulging in a costume. This is in keeping with my theory: avoid it as long as you can.

That morning, she had her two-year check up with the pediatrician, so I threw a couple of hats on us and proclaimed "Cowboys! Native American Indians! Something like that!" So far, so good.

We got to the ped's office, which actually appeared to be a convention of licensed characters… forgive me my ignorance, but there was something like Stretchy Girl (from the Incredibles movie), Thomas the Train (I TOTALLY know that one and we don't even have it at home) and um, well… a lot of other things that looked like licensed characters but I have no idea who they were. There was even a naughty nurse!!! (no, there wasn't. just checking to see if you're still with me here)

Apparently Dave and I are raising our children in a terrible void… each time we were approached by a different character (masquerading as a child's health care professional), we heard something like, "Oh! Does she like (insert licensed character's name here)?"

For cripe's sake, people, for the last time NO! And Mommy doesn't know what they hell you're talking about either, but please, please get away from us. The corporate empires are doing everything they can to win my kid's brand loyalty, and she can't even say REGISTERED TRADEMARK yet. Can someone just send in a nice little bunny to give my girl her flu shot??

Fast forward, eight hours.

A kind neighbor dropped by our house with two cuddly costumes – a ladybug and a bee. And I was powerless.

I dressed up my eldest kiddo and we paraded around the neighborhood, just like all the other parents and their little kiddlets. And you know what? We had a blast. I was gently reminded that this is the fun part about having kids: remembering how fun it was to do this stuff yourself, and then seeing it all again through their experience.

Next year: she'll probably figure out that the stuff they're putting in her pumpkin is candy… and it was meant for her, not mommy. Oh well.

I'm so embarassed that I even got caught up in this. But here goes.
*****************************

Hey Kids, we have a great show for you today! Let's listen to a well-loved, deep-pocket celebrity sob on and on about the evil-doings of a hard-working non-profit group. Can you guess who will win? Stick around and we'll find out!

waa, waa, look at me, I'm special


Hi. My name is Ellen.
I don't read the papers that I sign, because I'm special.
I don't have to follow the rules of other organizations, because I'm special.

Watch me cry, look how much I care, look how sorry I am.

I was only trying to do the right thing.

Wait a minute, can we do another take on that? I don't think the camera adequately captured the glint of my tears.


*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*

Hi, Ellen.

I fostered rescued animals in my home for about three years, and I screened all the applicants who wanted to adopt them. I interviewed them in my home and at adoption sites. I did this in accordance with the guidelines of the organization that invested their own assets (more than $3000 and more than a few months) to make it possible.

I fed the kittens, took them to the vet for appointments, and kept their living area clean and full of toys. I worked my buns off for those little animals. And one day when I called to check in with someone who had adopted one of the kittens, she said it wasn't working out and she was going to give the cat to someone else.

I reminded her that the documents she signed obligated her to return the cat to us. That changed her mind and she decided to work on things a little harder. (I guess, because as you so tearfully pointed out, a shelter isn't a home.)

That's kind of how it works. Even if you spent three grand "training" your animal to get along with other animals. Is it easier to throw in the towel when you didn't do the hard work yourself?

See, it doesn't matter what you think anymore, because you removed yourself from the situation the moment you gave yourself the authority to give away the dog.

You're out of the picture.
You decided it was too hard.
You decided you couldn't do it anymore.

And that's why there are groups like Mutts and Moms, because their mission never ends, and it's always the same.. because of people like you.

They find and rescue animals, and they bring consistency and standards to their lives. And then they work THEIR butts off, to make sure the process benefits every single animal in their system.

That's why they decide what constitutes the best family for a dog (no children under 14).
That's why they obligate you to return the dog to them (because they care about finding the best family for the animal).
That's why you're NOT qualified or even empowered to do the task—you gave up. You abandoned your animal, but veiled the act itself with words of good intentions.

And for some reason, you thought it was necessary to broadcast your plight. Put the rescue group on the stand! Shed some light and create a public outrage to RETURN THE DOG!

Because as everyone knows, it's fun to pit a non-profit animal group against a well-loved celebrity.

And now, a perfectly decent organization is getting death threats.

Well. Good for you, Ellen. You're changing the world after all.

I can't believe I even wasted blog space on this.

Step One: Admit that we are powerless...


******************

Mixing the Magic of Disney with the Quality of Behr®
Create the happiest rooms on earth with Disney Color by Behr, available exclusively at The Home Depot.

******************


Someone worked on this. Someone who does what I do, every day.

Maybe Disney was looking for a way to extend their reach to the ba-jillions of kiddlets who love their Disney characters, and the parents who consistently reach into their pockets to pacify them.

Maybe Behr was just looking for a way to extend their reach to consumers, tapping into the market of adoring parents who would NEVER paint their baby's room with something as mundane as "Blue"…. Oh no, it has to be ATTA BOY BLUE or CINDERELLA'S BALL GOWN. No kidding.

Go ahead and look… you know you want to.

Someone came up with all those names.
Someone developed the tagline, "Mixing the Magic of Disney with the Quality of Behr®".
Someone wrote the web page copy that begins, "Create the happiest rooms on earth…"

And in case you didn't know, certain colors and characters have been designated for "Infants & Toddlers", "Kids", "Girls", "Boys", and "Tweens & Teens". God help you if you select a pirate color for your little girl's room… do not pass go, go directly back to "Girls".

All I know is that Mickey Mouse has NEVER stepped foot/paw/whatever into our home at 8001.

The television is shut away in the basement, where the girls never interact with it.

The computers are behind closed office doors, where the girls can only use them with our supervision and for viewing home movies and photos.

On Sunday I took TinyE on an outing to Home Depot, where I thought she would enjoy looking at the flowers as I picked up some mundane home repair products. Silly Mommy.

Someone in the paint department handed a sticker to TinyE when she was getting restless, and when we got home I promptly applied it to her favorite place – her belly.

And then she pointed at the mouse character on her tum and announced with delight, "Mishey Mouse!"

And all I could think was, "MY GOD! THEY GOT TO HER!"*

My next thought was, "This is from the child who still speaks in one-syllable, one-word sentences?"

My next thought was, "Why not Papa John's?! That's one brand this household practically worships!"

And Dave's response was, "She can't even say ELVIS!"

I wanted to blog about marketing to children, and everything Dave and I have done to limit our girls' exposure to marketing and branding hoo-ha (children have been shown to have brand preferences by age 2…).

And then I found this: Hands off my kid's brain, bozos.

It's a long post, but I found myself agreeing with every sentence. It's worth the read. And I figured.... why redo it?

* Research has yet to reveal the source of possible Disney infiltration. Next up…. Researching the research process behind designing Mishey Mouse. How did they know???

Goodbye, Friend



Fritz
2001 - 2007

We don't know what happened last night. One minute Fritz was pacing the house, upset about the neighborhood cat that was prowling in our back yard. The next, he was on his side, under the kitchen table.

Dave yelled at me to come and get TinyE — I thought he meant that Fritz was freaking out again, come get TinyE so she stays away from him. When I got to the kitchen, she was climbing on a chair, struggling to look over Dave's shoulder and see what was going on... she wailed as I picked her up, "Da-Dat! Da-Dat!"

I saw Dave with his hand on Fritz's side, saying "Hey Fritz, hey buddy..."

Dave looked at me and said, "He's dying."

There was no struggle, there seemed to be no pain. There was just a vacant stare in his eyes, a quiet mew, and one deep shudder. It happened in all of two minutes, if that long. Then the house erupted into further chaos as both girls wailed separately in their bedrooms, locked away as Dave and I stood in the kitchen, stunned. Trying to figure out what had happened and what to do next. What to do with the big, heavy, limp body cradled in Dave's arms. What kind of dream we were in. We decided to take him to the U for a necropsy. We just need to know what happened.

Dave helped me get the girls settled down, and then he left. The furry white body loaded into the cat carrier, little pink nose and ear tips turning grey.

The rest of the night was eerily quiet. There was no boulder on the bed by my feet, no rattling of the window blinds in the early hours, no high-pitched squeaks of excitement as I doled out the morning nibblets.

Goodbye, little Fritzer. Our tiny, gigantic, pinhead, high-strung, cuddly, snarly kitty. We loved you.

My Tiny Ease
You read it correctly, there's a new name to this blog. While "My Tiny E" served this blog well during the years of a single daughter, I believe the addition of a second daughter means it's time to change the brand stategy and upgrade identity. As you may recall, "My Tiny E" was chosen for two reasons:

* Because TinyE looked like a Tiny Elvis in her white baby jumpsuit (a la the Saturday Night Live skit - Tiny Elvis)
* Because she is a Tiny Extrovert.

Therefore, playing on the equity and reputation of our original name, and with a touch of bittersweet, let me introduce "My Tiny Ease":

* In recognition of the Two Tiny Extroverts who now rule our roost.
* In recognition that while most of my week is stuffed with ridiculous responsibilities like work and cleaning, the girls still offer me one precious, fleeting space of Tiny Ease.

My Tiny Ease looks forward to the opportunity of continuing its mission: posting regular heaps of emotional drivel, opinionated rants, and irreverent observations, regardless of audience preference or existence.

Labor Day Weekend Pics






Let there be light...
Where there used to be shade, we now have room for our own baseball diamond:

Fun with pop culture, part I


It's my kid in a box.

Mind your own beeswax.
I'm in a tizzy over something that didn't even happen directly to me.

We were enjoying a nice outing at the park last night—listening to a Cajun band. Dave's sister and I were on a blanket with BabyS, Dave was following TinyE around the park and TinyE was entertaining a group of elderly observers by prancing and running in circles. Just a nice, relaxing, end of summer night. With a few pesky bugs.

At one point I saw a woman talking with Dave, off in the distance way across the park (because when TinyE goes running, she really gets around…) Later, as we were driving home, Dave told me about their conversation. Apparently this woman also had some deficiency of her right arm and was dolling out urgent advice about how we needed to get TinyE to a surgeon right away and FIX HER ARM.

Dave replied that we're already seeing a very good hand surgeon, and the woman's response was "Yes, but does she DO ARMS?!"

I can't begin to list how many levels of offensive this qualifies for. Let's just skip the obvious one, about giving advice to strangers. And let's skip the other obvious one, about giving parenting advice to strangers.

Let's go right to the biggies that are gnawing at me (and again, I wasn't even there!):

Don't walk up and start giving medical advice about my daughter when she's right there. She might be two, but she's not an idiot. She knows you're talking about her, and now she knows you're saying something's wrong with her. Shame on you.

Don't inform us that something on our daughter needs "fixing". She's not your business. And obviously, you aren't aware that she is already using her small right arm in extraordinary ways, every single day. She is incredibly functional….. more so than most people, because she is adapting to a limb difference that this world does not automatically accommodate.

And finally, don't make statements that assume we aren't already doing everything we can for her. You insult me, and even more, you insult the incredible devotion my husband demonstrates to TinyE, every day. Because I go off to work during the week, but Dave is at home with her. And for the first year or so of her life, he was the one doing her physical therapy at home… even when it made her twist and cry. He was the one who made a list, and checked off the exercises every day, just to ensure it would get done. He was the one who applied the miniscule baby splint to her tiny little thumb every day, to make sure it got a good stretch during her nap.

And now he's the one who packs everything up and takes her to pool therapy once a month—an hour away from our home. And he's the one who packs her up (now, including BabyS) and takes her to "land" therapy once a month.

He's the one who drives us all to the appointments with the surgeons, the geneticists, the specialists. And he's the one who holds us all together, especially when I just can't.

Most of all, he's the one who always says, "She's going to do anything she wants to do… baseball, soccer, play the piano… anything."

Fix her arm?! What's wrong with you? *


*For the sake of my audience, this post does not include the profanity that automatically populated the original rambling.

Dear John

Yesterday I heard that some gracious company is sponsoring a lactation room at the State Fair— a cozy, hygenic place where mommas can nurse their babies and feed their children. Complete with magazines for your reading pleasure and a sink for handwashing. I bet it's air-conditioned. I bet the chairs are recliners. I bet the moms are treated to sweet snacks.

I thought of this today.
When I bunkered down for my afternoon session with the breast pump...
on the floor of the public bathroom stall, next to the toilet...
which was backed up with human feces.

Yay me, I'm a pumping mom.

This Tree.



When I was pregnant with TinyE, I would go out on our deck at the end of the day, sit in a chair and look up into the tree. As the light faded, I watched the patterns of the branches and leaves against the sky, and I wondered about how our lives were about to change.

When TinyE was about 3 months old, I was back at work and my Dad had just died. I'd venture onto the deck in the evenings again, and watch the tree. The peaceful sounds of the creaks and squeaks, the soft swaying of the highest limbs, was like a window into another world; the place where my Dad's spirit had gone. Being underneath those branches in the evening was comforting.

- - - - - - - - - -

August 13, evening. The toppled portion of the tree had been cleared away. The other half, still standing, sentenced to its death the following day. Dave wasn't back yet, but the two girls were home with me.

I didn't want to be alone as I said my final farewell to the tree, so I carried TinyE out on the deck and we sat there together. The light was fading rapidly, it was too late to get a clear picture of the branches that drifted above us. But it was comforting; being there, holding my daughter on my lap, and telling her about the tree and how lucky we had been to have it in our yard.



The branches of this tree shaded our house through every season of the year. Our back yard was so protected, there was always a shady spot for TinyE to play—no matter how bright the sun, no matter what time of day. And in some rain storms, we could walk around portions of the yard without ever feeling a drop.

I was blubbery over the tree. I don't care, I'll admit it. Because in many ways, the tree reminded me of my Dad.

He was gone from our lives too soon, and it had happened right after I went back to work. He never had the chance to meet TinyE, and he was gone too soon to ever meet BabyS. But he would have adored them both.

The tree fell in our yard, and that was something we would have talked about.

So maybe it was my Dad there with us, who put the thought into my head: "Losing the tree is sad, but one of the most precious things you have is on your lap right now."

And even though I was crying, I felt better. And grateful. And lucky.

And so we said goodbye to the tree. And I pointed to the branches that danced in the night sky. And TinyE whispered, "Yeah" to everything I said.

And then we went back inside; I put TinyE to bed, and I went to hold her sister.

The Mighty Has Fallen.

June 2006.
Tiny E studying grass under the silver oak in our back yard.




August 2006.
TinyE practicing first steps and playing under the tree in our front yard.






Last Friday night, a violent storm took its toll on the large tree that resided in our back yard. The stress of 80mph winds was too much for the rotting core, and the tree tore right down between the two trunks, sending the eastward side through all of our power and cable lines, taking them to the ground and smashing the entire east portion of our fence.

It landed four feet from the new addition we completed in 2006 – where Baby S and I were just finishing a 3:00am feeding.

The power outage and continued violence of the storm sent Dave and me scurrying into the front room, children in our arms, where we tried calling the power company to report the live power lines that were twisted around the fallen tree. After listening to the on-hold message for AN HOUR, we crossed our fingers that the tree wouldn't burst into flames and tried to go back to bed.

Waking again around 8am, our family was in a huge funk – no air conditioning, no lights, no way to cook breakfast for the girls, and worst of all (to me), three day's worth of rapidly thawing breast milk in the refrigerator. We eventually high-tailed it to the house of our (once again) saviors, Dave's parents.

Back in the cities, our other savior soon came along. The contractor who built our addition is also a good friend—let's call him Andrew—he sent his electrician over on Monday to repair the power mast (which was ripped from the roof) and we were only out of power for three days (as of this writing, the power company has YET to visit our house).

Andrew and his crew also took on the job of removing the fallen tree and cutting down the remaining portion.

With more sadness, Dave and I eyed the tree in our front yard as well — it has three separate trunks, a similarly rotting middle, and two of the trunks lean perilously over the front of the house and TinyE's room. When we voiced our concerns about this tree, Andrew offered to remove it as well, for no added cost. Two trees gone – for the price of one. I trust that all the activity in our yard this week will remind our neighbors to ask us for Andrew's name when they need the same kind of work done… and he will more than make up for his generosity towards us.

So this week we're saying goodbye to two quite wonderful trees that have shaded and protected our home through all the season.

Thanks to our friend Stu for the pictures he took Saturday morning, right after the storm.

And check out the news report that was broadcast live from our front yard (even though we told them that the real storm damage was in the back yard).

Tall Buildings
John Hartford



Someday, my baby, when I am a man,
And others have taught me the best that they can,
Sell me a suit, and cut off my hair,
And send me to work in tall buildings.



So it's goodbye to the sunshine, goodbye to the dew,
Goodbye to the flowers, and goodbye to you.
I'm off to the subway. I must not be late.
I'm going to work in tall buildings.



When I'm retired, my life is my own.
I've made all my payments, it's time to go home.
I'll wonder what happened betwixt and between,
When I went to work in tall buildings?



So it's goodbye to the sunshine, goodbye to the dew,
Goodbye to the flowers, and goodbye to you.
I'm off to the subway. I must not be late.
I'm going to work in tall buildings.

The Big Dump



Four broken deck chairs (two styles): worthless
Two broken vacuum cleaners: worthless
Four shaky wooden folding chairs: worthless
Two huge, rotting plastic plant containers: worthless
One 6' section of fence, leftover from remodeling: worthless
Two large suitcases rejected by GoodWill: worthless
One black suitcase with a broken zipper: worthless
One Bunn coffeemaker that leaks coffee onto the counter with every use: worthless
Four wooden rods that used to fit into the closets, before the remodeling: worthless
Assortment of plastic containers and tubs left over from gardening: worthless
One 8' length of huge tree limb left over from storm damage: worthless
ETC
ETC

Value of renting a dumpster for $147 for one week and clearing out all the crap that never fits into the garbage can: PRICELESS.

Who says you can't attain some (temporary) level of order and cleanliness on maternity leave?