Remnants

My mom is pretty jazzed that I have my own storage area in my basement. Her excitement is palpable--she's reclaiming her own basement and sending me home with bins and boxes when I visit. Each bin is a reminder that I am as sentimental as they come. Case in point: I only recently decided it was an acceptable time to throw away my box of notes from seventh grade. Toni Wachter, I'm sorry. Our history is now undocumented. Your folding skills are still unprecedented.

When I went to take a sauna last night at my parents' house, the sauna changing room was filled with what I think are the final three bins: My porcelain doll collection, my Beanie Babies and my baseball cards.

I received a porcelain doll each Christmas morning for years. It started around age 7, when I tired of getting a Cabbage Patch doll each Christmas morning. (By the time I was 7, I had triplets. Kind of explains why I always thought I'd have 5 kids...) I loved those porcelain dolls: I loved their glossy curls, I loved their painted freckles, I love the delicate ruffles on their dresses. I loved seeing them standing all fancy on my dresser. They made me feel special and girly, and I realized last night that while I favored the blonde ones, wishing I had their yellow curls, my mom always made sure there were a few brunettes in the mix for good measure. I favor the brunettes now.

The Beanie Babies were a fad, yes, but totally exciting and all-consuming too. I remember serious discussions with my brother, about which ones were mine, and which ones were his, and which ones we wanted to put on our wish list. We were running a Beanie Baby business, him and I, and damn it if I wasn't going to run a tight ship. I'm fairly certain that had I had access to Excel, I would have had some serious spreadsheets going on.  I think the box contains both his and mine, our inventory thrown together after a year or two in business.

When I opened the bin containing the baseball cards, memories flooded back to me. In my painstakingly bubbly second-grade penmanship, the cards were labeled in albums by team. "Angels/Dodgers" was crossed out, probably when I made a big trade with the neighbor boys and gained more Angels cards. One book, I noticed, was alphabetized by first name. I'm telling you, I am who I am. Even when I was 10.

I'll be doing some market research on the cards and animals on eBay. Here's hoping Eric McQuaid and the boy across the street didn't end up trading me out of all the good cards. Jakey, don't worry, you'll receive dividends on the Beanie Bag dynasty. The porcelain dolls will get a corner of my own basement, next to the yearbooks and bin of goodies (orange dress and all).

It's funny, what remains from your childhood. It's a delicate balance, learning what to hold on to and what to let go.

we would heal, be humbled, and be unstoppable
we'd hold close and let go and know when to do which
we'd release and disarm and stand up and feel safe
this is my utopia
this is my ideal, my end in sight
this is my utopia
--Alanis Morissette