goodbye storage unit

where do the cots go

We had a deadline of April 14^th to empty our storage unit. The price of the London unit was no longer feasible. When I said yes to ending the contract, I thought I’d be ready to let go of some belongings.

What I’ve done instead is pay over 1K to move MOST of the belongings up to Liverpool, rather than diligently go through each item, throw away or re-home things we don’t need anymore.

It was a simple job and I failed.

Rather than give all the baby clothes and toddler clothes to charity, I asked my mum to take the many rubbish bags full of teeny clothes back to her flat so she could decide what she wanted to keep. She is partly responsible for my hoarding as she saved all of our baby clothes from the 80s and 90s and I have used many if not all of them for my kids. Half of the bags are brilliantly made retro baby clothes that have stood the test of time, and half of the bags are full of cheap clothes bought from George, Asda or stolen after a day of messy play at nursery (mainly Paw Patrol emblazoned t-shirts).

I found myself excited on the day of the van because it was the first step towards moving into our new house. We won’t be living there for a while as it is still far from being ready to live in (plumbing/electrics etc) but it’s got one room which we will use as Stuff Purgatory.

the baby clothes and the novel i didn’t sell

Me, my mum and my eldest son arrived at the unit before 7.45am in preparation for the vans arrival at 9am. We started by getting everything out of the unit that wouldn’t break our backs, and I quickly realised that my estimate of “4” extra cardboard boxes was wildly inaccurate and there were about 10. 10 boxes full of my things – matter that was unrelated to the kids – my stuff pre-kids–10 boxes full of my old sketchbooks, which I thought were all accounted for at our flat (sat in a wine fridge under the nappies and wet wipes). I had also forgotten about a large ikea metal tv unit which was full of notebooks and more sketchbooks. Much of what I’ve ever written or drawn was in this storage unit, along with another bag of hard drives I’d forgotten about.

I have absolutely no idea what is on the hard drives – Other Me’s maybe. I have a good idea of what’s in the notebooks – which would be purely tv and film ideas, episode outlines and character descriptions. My twenties were devoured by ideas that, it’s plain for me to see now, never had a dying chance of getting made. Stacks and stacks and stacks of stupid ideas!

I felt slightly sick seeing this confirmation of productivity, which I have not been able to keep up in years. If I had kept going at that rate, would I have ‘made it’, whatever ‘making it’ is. Was I productive but all of it was mediocre and dumb? A glance though a few of the notebooks and I was fondly transported back to being 25 in a Coffee Republic on Goodge Street trying to write a one-woman monologue set in space.

I am not that person anymore, but I can’t get delete all record of her.

In a way, the storage of my work it’s like what I’m doing with my kids’ artwork…. when they’re adults and have time to look back at what they created when they were young– if they want it, they can have it. In the meantime, I’ll keep it all safe.

I am not one for spirituality, but I do believe in energy – and I was struck by the energy of the unit. A pained and rushed energy; sad but hopeful. The unit was full of all the “extra” bits: the forgotten, dormant, patient bits of 6 people’s lives. Coats and silly hats we never wear. Endless drawings of Elsa from Frozen and gloves with the fingertips chopped off with nail scissors. Boxing gloves and a fucking massive Air Bike we got during lockdown for at-home exercise. We used it less than 10 times and it cost 800£ and I was now at the minutes away from sending it to it’s death at the dump. I had to pay extra for the removal men to take the extremely heavy air bike (imagine a super fat peloton bike) but I was relieved when the men told me that the ‘waste disposal’ van was delayed and asked if I would reconsider taking the bike…. Everything in that unit to Liverpool.

Treasure such as

-My GCSE Design Technology project about clocks that I copied from girl in the year above. She played tennis and for some reason was keen I copied her. I like to think she fancied me.

-A Hogwarts scarf I got given at the opening of Harry Potter World in Orlando.

-A potty they never used – potties are useless, but I tried! I don’t want to lose evidence that I tried!

- A bag of party bags that we never needed or forgot to give out at a party… one of the few parties I’ve ever thrown and it was actually good and I’m proud of that.

-Stabilisers for bikes we’ve barely used in the city. But they remind me that they can ride a bike now and at one point I thought they never would, and how incredible that is! My independent baby riding a bike!

-A coat I got when I was 16 that had a fur collar and which I believed made me look like Kate Hudson in Almost Famous (it did not, it was from H&M and was more ‘old lady dressing gown she found on street with pigeon shit on’).

Boxes and boxes of their lockdown drawings. We covered walls!

lockdown drawings now in a box

The main issue of the morning was deciding what to do with the dismantled baby cots, with all the screws and nails in random little plastic bags. There were three – two bedside cribs that you can have unzipped next to the bed for co-sleeping, and one big fancy cot that none of my babies ever slept in. I know I could have asked around and seen if anyone needed one or sold one blah blah but that would have required me to be more socially connected and organised that I am ever going to be.

I am not a frugal person, which is partly why I’m doing OF (as I write about in my paid diary entries on here). I now see each day working on the site – hustling with my hair - as repenting for my dire fiscal history. Going forwards I must not make the same mistakes again. I will not be buying too many bunkbeds or daybeds or sofas or armchairs or footstools or tv units or desks – we will keep what we own and enjoy having space, not cram it with more crap. ( I will cram it with more crap ).

I knew I should let it all go

the cots the cots

It’s illogical to keep a (three) baby cot(s) I will never have to use again. but by saying goodbye to them, I am saying no to more children, I am saying goodbye to that era of my life, and that scares me. I’m not ready. I’m too attached to having a baby, some days I even feel like I just gave birth even though it’s now been three years since. I forget a lot, but I can be instantly transported back to labour, feel the head coming out; agony followed by ecstasy. The little weight of him as he was laid on my chest, his head rested in between my blood-stained boobs.

I propped up all of the cot parts and assessed them. What struck me first was how much wood there was. Second – how it was all in pristine condition because of the lack of usage (I do not understand how people manage to get a baby into a cot and/or to sleep in a cot - I have never seen it happen and do not believe it’s possible, it’s a cot conspiracy.) .

I wanted to cry; I cried a little. What was I meant to do with all this wood now? If I could have pressed a button and been 9 months pregnant immediately, I would have, because I’m insane and my hormones are forever feral. Have another baby and make use of this wood! Crack motherhood round 5? I called A (who was looking after the other kids at home) and told him that I wasn’t ready to discard the cots, I just couldn’t do it.. I said don’t worry I don’t want another baby I just can’t get rid of the cots yet and he replied as he always does when slapped in the face with my whimsical sentimental hoarding tendencies – sure.

It's funny because the only thing in the storage unit that was his was the air bike and a bag for life full of books on war and philosophy that I wanted to get rid of but couldn’t when we broke up briefly two years ago. There is little trace of him in our flat amidst the Lego and soft play furnishings and dinosaur collection. He basically lives out of a rucksack. I am jealous that he doesn’t hold onto things like I do for years and years.

There was one animal printed baby gro at the top of a pile that looked so small I had to measure it against another. It was barely bigger than the size of my palm, and this was one of the baby’s regular outfits. I don’t remember holding a baby that small. I don’t remember dressing a baby that small or sleeping with a baby that small.

tiny baby

I keep everything but I remember nothing.

The most fragile possession to move was the piano. So far this piano has moved from a house in Hampstead to our storage unit and now will have a bumpy ride to Liverpool. The piano is probably already fucked from the move….it’s so old, but I like how it looks and wanted to take it. Varnished oak (I’m guessing oak, are pianos oak??). It’s been loved by many children if the stickers on the keys are anything to go by. I like that the piano has a story and it will be there waiting for us at the house when we start our story there.

It’s so much change for us right now. I can see their growth every day; hair, feet, hands. They even outgrow socks. Imagine outgrowing your socks???

I have a problem.

I’ve written about this before, but I really cannot stand one part of parenthood and that part is BUYING KIDS SHOES. The reason I find it so depressing is because they are so madly expensive for the size of the shoe and the child usually outgrows the shoe within a few months. somewhere in the storage unit was a bag of shoes I could not part with because they were not worn enough to throw away, and as usual, I had thought ‘well the next child will be able to wear them’ but often the next child has missed that shoe size window. Recently though, I lucked out and there were two pairs of Vans black high-tops that were roughly the right size for my 4-year-old. I actually had two pairs of size 11s, one pair my eldest wore and one pair my daughter refused to wear. At this point 4y0 son was a size 9 but the idea of going to buy him shoes was too much at the time so I let him wear the shoes that were too big for him but looked very cool. And they’ve lasted for about 6 months if not longer and he was able to switch between the two pairs. I haven’t had to get him new shoes in so long and he’s grown into them and now they’re battered, and my mum even stapled the straps that were breaking to make them last a little longer. The staples proved to be quite dangerous, and it forced me to accept that it was time for us to go to the dreaded Schu Kids.

On the day that I was meant to buy him new shoes, he stepped in dog poo. I thought, well that’s fine, we’re getting new shoes anyway in a minute. At the Schu shop, he wanted to wear the new shoes straight away and I put the old dirty shoes in the new shoe box. I couldn’t ask the shop to take the shitty shoes, so I took the box back with me on the tube. I had to go on somewhere – food shopping or something – and I planned to throw the box away on the way. When it came to it, standing in front of the bins, I just couldn’t. My little boys stapled shoes which he’s worn every day for 6 months? I’m supposed to get rid of them in a swift second? I ended up carrying the shitty shoes all around the supermarket and carrying them with the groceries all the way back home.

I did the same thing the next week as I needed to get the 3-year-old new shoes. He wanted to wear the new pair straight away and I found myself wanting to cry in a Waterstones toilet putting a tiny shoe box containing dirty shoes (which I had written his name with sharpie pen) into a nappy bin.

I took a photo of their shoes.

stapled and sharpied shoes

They’re getting older, it’s plain and painfully beautiful to see.

It’s a time of change for us all.

I have started a new job which is snowballing out of my control which I can only do in tiny little snippets of child-free time.

My 4yo got rejected from our two of our choices of primary school for September, and I don’t want him to go to the one we got offered. I am seriously considering home-schooling next academic year. I have jumped down a ‘how to home-school your kids Change. Your. Life. TRAVEL THE WORLD AND TEACH THEM ABOUT TREES” hole on Instagram.

My eldest is doing intensive 11+ preparation so he can get into a grammar school. He did a booster course during the easter holidays for a couple of days. mock tests and verbal reasoning and things I haven’t heard of since I was that age. there were technical issues on the first morning and he told me they had to wait for about 15 minutes. I said what did you do in that waiting time? and he replied endured awkward silence with a level of dry I’m intimidated by. I asked why it was awkward and he said it was because most of the other kids were on their phones. He knew I’d get upset by that because I’m very much a YOU ARE NOT GETTING A PHONE mum.

The easter holidays are now almost over.

I’ve done no work, really, and we’ve had a nice time. Too busy, not busy enough, but nice. I am looking forward to writing more when they’re at school and nursery. I am looking forward to making new things.

The van made it to the house in one peace. The piano still plays.

I have grand plans to go through all of the things one day during a half term but deep down I doubt I’ll have the time – and the (luxury) problem of having a house is being able to hide stuff and store stuff and bury stuff in attics till the end of time. I don’t want to do that; I want to know where everything is and for there to be an abundance of clearly written labels acting like a map, directing me back– but I know my skills and labelling is not one of them.

Is there a way of keeping all of it but re-purposing it into something useful? Maybe I can learn how to build something with all the cot wood? A tree house? A stair slide?

Maybe……