I have the equivalent of Toy Purgatory in my laundry room. It’s where I stash stuff that I want to get rid of and am pretty sure the kids won’t miss but am too afraid to actually toss or give away for fear of having one of them ask for it one day. This may sound completely compulsive, but I suffer from that annoying Murphy’s Law syndrome where anytime you get rid of something — especially if you’ve had it and haven’t used it for, oh, say 15 years — you’ll need it the following month. The last time I threw out toys without “checking,” I found myself digging through a plastic trash bag that had already been taken to the outside garbage can and was unfortunately covered with some things that I don’t really want to talk about. I’d tossed out some plastic figures from McDonald’s that Newt had hardly ever touched but had amazingly decided were his favorite toys of all time — on that very day. Not joking. It’s like they’re psychic (the kids, not the plastic figures).
So it’s practically unheard of for me to be able to get rid of anything at my house. Especially with Elfie around (she develops emotional attachments to glow sticks and face paint). Which is why I’m still kind of in shock over the last two days that we’ve spent packing up Newt’s train sets. I mentioned that his birthday is coming up and he’ll be getting new toys, so we need to make some room. Next thing I know, we’re putting his Brio, Thomas trains, and Geotrax into boxes.
Crazy thing was, I think I was the only one who seemed to care. I sat there in Newt’s room, looking at the empty train table (that was covered with dust because who bothers to dust in-between train tracks?), and I started thinking about how old he was getting. And how my mom was with me when we bought him his trains. And how pretty soon, he’d be outgrowing everything she’d ever gotten for him.
Just to make things worse, the kids had put on an old lullaby CD that was playing a song I used to sing to Newt when he was a baby. Like I said — psychic.
Yet even with all of these memories, the idea that I’m someone’s mother — anyone’s mother — is frankly still a stretch most of the time. And the thought that I’ll soon be the mother of a 7-year-old is practically unbelievable. I’m starting to wonder if the motherhood idea will finally sink in by the time they move out. I can see myself now: roaming the house, wondering where the kids are, and quietly stashing everything in the laundry room until it’s too full to get to the washing machine. And of course the kids won’t come home to visit because there won’t be anywhere to wash their dirty laundry. Like I said — psychic.
Tammy Soong is a writer, wife, and mom from Reno, Nevada. She takes an absurd amount of pain medication, but not enough to have actually named her children "Newt" and "Elfie." She spends most days stressing out over clutter, writing stuff for this place, and working on podcasts with her gal pals, the Blogging Betties.