Where does it come from? All of this stuff that we have?
I ask myself this daily as I am picking up 700 puzzle pieces and attempting to put them in their designated, curved edge, places on the boards. I never have all of the pieces, nor do I ever look under the couch to see if they have scurried there, avoiding the six feet that run, aimlessly, with no regard for the piece’s feelings should they stomp them flat in their hurry. I think I consciously leave them under there out of compassion. I know what it is like to be flattened by 3 little girls, all running, full force, only to slam into me, trusting that I can keep my balance, not drop them, and laugh as it is happening.
When done with the puzzles, I head to the bookcase. My motto used to be “if it does not fit nicely, it gets throw out”. Somewhere, in the birth of three daughters and a move of five plus three dogs, I have lost the will to sort and organize the books in the order in which they will be thrown. So if I can cram them, possibly breaking a few spines, they go on the shelf.
As I dig my knee into one of those blocks with all the teeth on it, I cringe and again ask myself why we have to have so much stuff?
How is it possible that three little girls need 12 baby dolls? And what is the point of keeping the one that the dog has chewed the hand off of? Yes, yes, Sarah loves that doll and always wants to put a band aid on her chewed off, hollow arm. And while it is sweet and very cute to see her concern, and a little nice to dream of the day she gets her medical license and becomes a world renowned Orthopedic Surgeon, there is no real reason to keep the doll. Unless I just enjoy picking her up all of the time.
That must be it.
I will say though, that the dolls pale to the spawning we have in stuffed animals. They are everywhere!
I bought little nets for the corners of the girls rooms. You know, to stack said animals a mile high so they would be off the floor and out of my way. But, alas, I have girls who do not respect the sanctity of rest and feel the animals are “bored” up there. Almost daily, they are removed, thrown, landing in awkward positions on their already cluttered floors, only to be stepped on to reach something else. To throw on the floor in their room.
Why I keep all of these things, along with 40 half done coloring books, 80 dried out markers and 150 broken crayons, I will never know. Probably for the same reason I have bins of my old writings, poems and songs that I wrote in junior high school. Thinking that one day I’ll need them. Because I’ll be discovered, no clue what for, and will need them for my life story on the Biography channel.
I guess I just have to resign myself to the fact that if I ever want a clean, tidy house, I will have to build one for only me to live in at the back of our property. Or keep picking up toy after thing after part after stuff.
I should go through, sort, match up, organize and toss some things. Lots of things. Bag them up, donate them, get a tax receipt, keep up with the receipt, send the receipt to my accountant and try to remember what I donated.
But I won’t.
Because, really, that is a lot of work just to get rid of some stuff.