We moved in January, and since then I’ve come face-to-face with what, I think, is my genetic destiny: I must, without fail, save every. single. thing. I’m not Hoarders worthy, but still. It’s RIDICULOUS.

For example:

I’m working in that chair. On that desk, next to those shelves stacked with stuff freshly unpacked from dozens of boxes. You can see just a few of the, oh, 65 Nancy Drew books saved from my childhood. I have stacks of slides, old wooden stamps from my dad’s business, dozens of arrowheads collected from all over North Carolina. Jars of buttons my mother collected maybe 25 years ago. Notebooks filled with school reports and stories I wrote in school.

And these boxes? Office supplies, journals from elementary school on, letters from high school friends, files of notes from stories written five years ago, one marked “IDEAS,” which I haven’t even opened yet.

I’m a child of parents who grew up during the Depression. They saved everything. I mean everything. When my sister and I cleaned out the house after my dad passed away, we threw away cabinets full of jarred peaches and green beans that were, oh, at least 15 years old. At least. We filled a dumpster full of things my parents had squirreled away in the nooks an crannies of their house. It’s hard to watch your parents hard work (even work that had spoiled) tossed into the garbage. I took what I could.

My physical connection to my parents is through the stuff they’ve left behind. For Iver, it’s all she’ll know. The arrowheads. The metals from Senior Olympics. The slides and the scraps of paper with their handwriting. The horse show trophy from the 1957 North Davidson Easter Festival Horse Show. The “if you haven’t used it/worn it/read it/looked at it in a year, then it’s not that important and should be shed” advice doesn’t work on me.

I know. This is weird. Melodramatic, maybe. It’s hard for me to let this stuff go.

But we have to make room for Iver, while also sharing with her half of who she came from, right? How do I do that? I’m trying to figure it out.

And so the boxes are sitting. Have been sitting, in fact. I’m working around them, trying to make headway on ever-growing lists of things I need to do. Like try not to be a pack rat. Or something like that.

I’m steadfastly ignoring the cabin fever that’s creeping, crawling just barely under my skin. Instead, I’ll focus on the absolutely beautiful quiet the past two days have given us. It snowed all day yesterday. Big, plopping, wet snowflakes fell and buried everything. I haven’t seen so much snow since 1993, when I got stuck with friends during spring break as we drove from Asheville to New York City. It took us two days to get to there — buoyed by the non-stop techno music the guys driving loved and a quick stop-over in DC. When the two dropped my friend and me off at Juilliard, it took me days to get those stinkin’ beats out of my head. Seeing Gregory Hines in Jelly’s Last Jam helped, though.

Blizzard ‘09. Proof.

Anyway, this snow is not as exciting, I suppose. No techno marathons. No ballerinas in the cafeteria with too-tight buns and only apples on their plates. No walking the streets of New York after cups of tea in cafes. Except now there’s a little girl sitting in my arms listening to me ramble on about these past adventures as we look out the window. She’s all who cares?? Uh, so true. It’s kinda irrelevant considering everything ahead, so, yes, this snow quiet is more intense, more exciting than anything I could have imagined, really.

This morning, our street.

So, to celebrate — I’m still doing the advent celebration, though amended way, way, way down — I spent the day holding Iver and listening to the radio as we sat under the Christmas tree lights. It was so simple. Precious, even, I’m not afraid to admit, because I felt peaceful in a way I haven’t in a while, partly due to sleep deprivation and partly due to finally relaxing that she’s here and OK. I can take a deep breath. Many deep ones. It’s been a sweet, sweet winter so far.

I’ve got a little baby cooing and squirming against me right now, so this’ll be quick, though I’m still collecting advent ideas and maybe I’ll catch up with them before the 25th rolls around. I hope y’all have found excellent ways to enjoy this season, which seems to be flying/slipping by. I just want to sit in my chair and think about what’s happening and what’s happened and write about it, but the minutes slip into hours into days and suddenly it’s 8 p.m. and the day is practically done.

But I did want to let those of you who read this *roam and rove* that Iver’s out of her light suitcase — she got out last Thursday! Jaundice is gone! — and that we’ve been holding her non-stop since trying to make up for lost cuddle time. Only thing is, our sleep deprivation is getting worse. Woah. I knew it would be tough, but not sleeping for days on end is the worst kind of torture for me. And today marks the TWO WEEK point, people! What’s going to happen in a year? Or two? Or three? What? I want to know!