John is cleaning the basement.
He's emptied every drawer, each shelf. He's going through the piles of children's clothes: "Merrick, try on these rain boots. Scarlett, let's hold up Stryker's jeans and see if you're there yet."
Every old cereal box and Burger King trinket is getting tossed. All the "maybe we'll need someday" pots, dishes, bird-feeders, plant holders, picture frames, mugs, stereo speakers, and vases are receiving individual evaluation. Twelve Goodwill bags. Stuffed animals, stray game parts, Dora board games, Elmo slippers, and Polly Pocket airplanes, gone.
"Don't look," he advises.
He's re-organized the downstairs pantry, tossing out ten year old cans of beans, pickled beets, and mandarin oranges. He created a 'pet feeding center' and 'gift-wrapping station.' Imagine organized containers, ribbons lined up on a hook, rolls of gift-wrap cued by color.
There's a stack of labels tacked to the wall with a pen nearby so he (we) can create more labels as needed.
He cleaned the refridgerator. He brought the shop-vacuum in from the garage and put that to work. He washed walls and windows.
Today, he's putting up shelves and constructing a storage system for children's clothes.
And he asked me if I wanted him to work in his boxers.
Who needs chocolate.