The end-of-year holiday season always brings out my urge to purge. As I prepare for guests and hosting—aka clean up entertaining spaces—I look around at all of the “stuff” and wonder where to hide it, at least temporarily.
Plastic boxes teeming with Legos line the perimeter of the den, along with cabinets chockfull of board games and art supplies. Our dining room has become an overflow office for my husband, the source of repeated and ongoing tension between us. That’s a story for another day.
It is astounding what accumulates over years, decades, and lifetimes, particularly my children’s.
Although the “participation trophies” and Pokemon cards are long gone, in the attic and their rooms – forever referred to as theirs whether presently occupied or not – are bursting containers and closets. What’s inside? Ticket stubs from long-ago attended events, awards, discarded or forgotten clothing, sweatshirts from every university tour, books, Playbills, sports jerseys, and whatever collectible items were in during their respective childhoods (and the list goes on).
I don’t understand why we keep a box of VHS children’s videos (the obsolete format before DVDs, for which no one still owns a player), but someone wants to go through it. The same is true of the container full of original Beanie babies from the 1990s/2000s (unfortunately, not the rare Princess Diana), including a decade-old list of the expected value upon sale.
Periodically, I wander into their rooms and select items for the bin – seeking approval to toss by photograph. Sometimes the response is a yes, but mostly I hear “not yet.”
My parents were not as willing to be a storage facility – and it wasn’t because they relocated. My mother still lives in the same home. But, as soon as I purchased a house, they delivered all remnants of my youth. It took a while; however, long ago, I whittled it down to a box or two and have not missed an item. Never was I going to review college and law school notebooks, a vestige of another time, though my handwriting and organization were impressive. I digress.
Similarly, my friends were not as kind or generous to their children about storage. One unceremoniously cleared out and tossed everything without any consultation. Impressive, perhaps. Somehow, though, that feels wrong despite my wish to do so.
As I’ve written here before, my sons are in various stages of adulthood, with one “gone” for good, making his own home with his spouse. Yet, he has implored me not to toss anything until he has time to look through it. I’ve only been asking for a decade. It is time. And I want to convert the room into an office and podcast studio.
Another moved out this year, perhaps permanently or not, leaving behind everything he doesn’t need. There’s more in this house than in his apartment. And the college kid, well, he gets more leeway, but his room could be a Lego store or warehouse.
, I am asking my children to clear out their crap and take your stuff. Let the de-accessioning era begin.){kind=link}