Why did you have to make
junk stuff so cheap?
Back when I was younger it wasn't as easy to accumulate so many things of so little value.
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Without all the
junk lovely mass made things, my house would probably be spit spot. However, as it were Mary Poppins would fly over my house in an instant, especially if she had a dust allergy, just like the maids domestic engineers that come to interview. Of course, the Miami one don't literally fly, but they don't want to work here either. I understand. If I didn't have the small space on my bed which I cleaned up to use as a remote office, I wouldn't want to work here either.
I am surrounded by things. My things and the things of my daughter. In boxes, on the chair, in bookshelves, on the floor. Dear lord, how did we get so many things?!?
I love reading stories of the old days where a young Midwestern girl would peer longingly into the window of the general store on Main Street, at the eyes of a baby doll. "It's just too expensive," her mom would say. And the girl would go home and dream of the doll until Christmas when she would be surprised with it. Then she would love it to tatters, before wrapping it lovingly in tissue paper and storing it in the attic, until wracked with old age, she'd try to nurse it.
Somehow I have a public school's worth of baby dolls. I am confident they didn't reproduce themselves though if real kids looked like them, I'd surmise incest. I thank birthday parties, two older cousins, friends, grandma, winter holidays, me saying, "you were so good at Target today, you can have that $6 doll," and more.
And it's not just dolls. It's just about everything that can be made out of plastic, meaning just about everything.
I have a policy where I don't throw any of my daughter's things away with out asking her. And, as you may guess, her heirs are going to be fighting like crazy over some nude Barbies, erasers shaped like strawberries and crazy straws.
Somehow we try to convince ourselves that some of these things will be worth something someday. Or are worth something now.
I occassionally allow myself to fantasize of the future:
Future teacher of my child: The class play will have to be cancelled unless we can find a long-handled red wicker basket with the capacity to hold one Beanie Baby.
Me: No worries. I have that. And a selection of over 20 Beanie Babies to warm the basket.
Future teacher of my child: Our hero!
Either that will be in my future. Or an episode of Hoarders.