I have a greater sentimental attachment to my children's belongings than they do. This would make sense to me if I were the type of person to update baby books (or even bother to buy baby books after the first few kids) or get annual family photos taken or even print snapshots once in a while. But I'm not. I have the memories and, most times, that's good enough for me.
Yet I still haven't donated or chucked my son's Bob the Builder bedsheets.
The fact that my kids' bedrooms are complete disasters devastates me. Also insane, since I grew up in a disaster of a room (and, well, kind of continue to live in one!). It breaks my heart because the messes lead to breakage. Broken DVDs, crumpled art work, missing pieces... All of those wonderful belongings destined for the trash can.
I finally had it with my 11yo, whom I've been telling to straighten up for several weeks. I'm not even talking dusting and vacuuming, just picking the crap up off the floor and putting it somewhere NOT on the floor! I gave him one last warning. If he didn't care enough about his stuff to put it away safely, he obviously didn't care enough to keep it.
Unfortunately, I CARE.
But I sucked it up.
This weekend, I sat down and gathered 5 garbage bags full of stuff while sobbing. And then I let the garbage men take it this morning.
And you know what? I feel better, and so does he.
Stuff sucks. It's time to tackle the rest of the house!
It’s us, but in dead animal form. But not really dead because they weren’t ever alive. Undead? No. That makes them sound like vampires. So not that. Fuck. I don’t know the word. Hey, how long can a title be? Because this seems excessive. Someone should stop me. Jesus. This is as bad as 280-character twitter.
1 day ago