We’re off camping tomorrow and I’m completely disorganized. Usually by this time everything is packed and waiting to be shoved in the car (literally shoved because that’s where my organizational skills falter a wee bit). Not this year. I haven’t even aired out the tent.
I think it’s because my daughter just got back from horseback riding camp and has decided that, since she is on the cusp of teenagedhood, she must rid her room of all things kid-like. It turns out everything in her room has been deemed kid-like.
Right now, the hallway in front of her room is stacked with garbage bags filled to the max with stuffed toys, board games, books and posters. The Goodwill is going to love us.
She seems to have no problem cleansing herself of these items. But I do. I’ve spent the past three days going through the items saying, “are you sure you want to get rid of this?” or, “you might want to keep this a little longer.”
My appeals have fallen upon deaf ears. Everything must go.
As a result, I have started my own pile in my room of items of hers I can’t seem to part with. Like the stuffed rabbit I used as a focal point during labour. Or, the beanie baby that she dropped in a scraps bin at the sewing store when she was 18 months. Upon realizing the toy was gone, I had the whole staff search every inch of the store until it was found. I can’t possibly give that away.
My husband has decided I’m completely nuts, especially since he has trouble getting into the bedroom now because my pile has grown to enormous proportions. Sure, it doesn’t make sense to keep the poorly made stuffed cow that looks like it’s been eaten by, and expelled from, the cat. But it was the first toy she ever won in one of those amusement park games.
I know these things are going to get boxed up, thrown in the basement and forgotten about until we move, or until nostalgia drives one of us to dig them out—probably when she’s about to get married or have her own child.
I also know that keeping them is not going to bring back the little girl who couldn’t go anywhere without that beanie baby, or who wouldn’t sleep without her blankie. I just wish I could hang on to that time a little bit longer. I wish they didn’t have to grow up.
I guess I’ll eventually have to stop sorting through the pile and tearing up as I tell yet another story of her childhood to the dog (my daughter has stopped listening and, as I said, my husband thinks I’m nuts).
If I don’t, camping without camping equipment could be a little uncomfortable—especially if it rains. Maybe I’ll bring the beanie baby along to sleep with.
