Our house has been overrun with too much kid stuff. We have toys and gear coming out of our ears. My daughter is an only child of an only child, so let’s just say grandpa and grandma (and daddy) go a bit crazy when it comes to buying her things. While I wouldn’t want to deny her, the first thought that crosses my mind when the next new gegaw is being considered is “holy crap where are we going to put this?” Let’s just say I’m usually the big party pooper.
At any rate, I was in the process of trying to at least START clearing out the basement of all the extra BIG stuff that she doesn’t play with anymore. Things like a giant plastic basketball hoop, and a plastic kitchen set, and the tricycle. Yes, the tricycle. Let’s just say that was a controversial move and one that nearly put me in the bad mom hall of shame.
Me, I’m the practical type. If we’re not using it, and don’t foresee ever using it again, then we should get rid of it. But woe is me for even considering decimating the memory of all the fun times had on that little trike. Let’s just say that while I think I’m being practical, the rest of the family thinks I’m unsentimental and heartless.
In retrospect, I should have been more sensitive to this issue. One of my most vivid and painful memories of childhood was my mother’s stony insistence on selling my favorite doll from babyhood (my lovey) at a rummage sale, despite my cries and pleading with her not to sell it. She, of course, was the practical type. I hadn’t played with it in years, it was just cluttering the house. Never mind watching the doll walk down the driveway with a new owner broke my heart.
I don’t want to turn into my mother. The trike is staying.