I am not wired with this particular characteristic.
I don't know if it's because I moved a fair amount growing up or because I have an innate urge to offload things that I'm not using and that are taking up space, but I have no problem purging a closet or room and getting rid of things I no longer use or need. Haven't worn this dress in years? Gone. Not ever going to whip together anything out of this cookbook? Thank you, next. Scent of this candle I was gifted too overpowering and it's never going to get lit? Let's not keep that light buried in a basket. With only a few notable exceptions, I will offload pretty much any "thing" that isn't getting used.
With this in mind, you would have thought I would have jumped all in on the Marie Kondo phase that went bananas during Covid. Purging all of the things, organizing all of the remaining things, and only keeping those things that "spark joy". But I didn't. I remember during 2020 my social media feeds were filled with people who were spending their newfound free time when their life slowed down by looking around and realizing that they didn't want or need all of the stuff that they'd accumulated. They sang the praises of the KonMari method and were feeling the freedom of getting rid of piles of stuff.
That wasn't me. I was in the "How many different ways can I bake bread?" trend of that same era. You don't have time to purge things if you're drowning your stress as a parent who is supervising the remote learning of two young kids - one of whom is neuro-spicy - in carb-laden homemade comforts. My family does not share in the same zeal for the release of the things that I do, and so it was breads and brownies and cookies and King Arthur Baking Challenges instead. Had I attempted to have my two elementary-aged children thank all of their stuffed animals for their service and release them from their shackles, I would have had a mutiny on my hands.
The kids are now middle-school aged and a lot of the toys and things that sprinkled their younger years are starting to make their way to more playful pastures. One of the last holdouts from the elementary era was the pretend food, a bucket of toys that for the last couple of years seemed to only appear on Thanksgiving Day as some sort of "make a fake meal" tradition they concocted or when a smaller friend was visiting that needed entertainment. I sorted through the bin, placed all of the food that was in good condition in a bag, and posted it on the online Marketplace for a lot less than we paid for it but enough to get the kids an ice cream or new board game.
Within minutes, a dad messaged me with interest. Yes, please take it off our hands and into the hands of your little one. He drove to my house, handed me cash, and a brief story.
His elementary-aged daughter had one wish for her birthday: a new play kitchen. My sale of a Trader Joe's bag full of pretend food came for them at the absolute perfect time.
The paltry amount of cash in my hand does not cover the worth of the joy that pretend food brought my children or the joy it will bring that little girl whose one birthday wish was a play kitchen. I could have charged and received $1,000 and it wouldn't have amounted to the value of that joy.
But the pretend food is gone from my house and space for a new round of memories connected to things has opened.
Within minutes, a dad messaged me with interest. Yes, please take it off our hands and into the hands of your little one. He drove to my house, handed me cash, and a brief story.
His elementary-aged daughter had one wish for her birthday: a new play kitchen. My sale of a Trader Joe's bag full of pretend food came for them at the absolute perfect time.
The paltry amount of cash in my hand does not cover the worth of the joy that pretend food brought my children or the joy it will bring that little girl whose one birthday wish was a play kitchen. I could have charged and received $1,000 and it wouldn't have amounted to the value of that joy.
But the pretend food is gone from my house and space for a new round of memories connected to things has opened.
There are times when a purge is necessary in order to move forward. For example, any time I have a move on the horizon I find this to be the prime opportunity to purge of things that have collected dust and taken up space long enough. No one wants to move things they don't have to; moving is enough of a pain in the backside without having extra boxes of clothes you haven't worn in ages, kitchenware you'll never use, and papers you haven't looked at in over a decade.
Books move. All of the books move. Don't judge. And while you're at it, don't look at my "To Be Read" list on The Storygraph either.
In the late spring of 2022, a house came on the market in our town that after 5 years of passively watching the market my husband and I agreed fit both of our checklists. We looked at it, put in an offer, and against every odd we had stacked up against ourselves in our head - it was accepted.
I immediately went into action. I worked my whole life for this. I moved 9 times in my life before I went to college and countless times in and out of dorms during the course of my Bachelor's degree. No, family, we are not going to just throw it in a box and then sort through it when we get to the new place. That's how we never get rid of things and become keepers of boxes of unused things. I became a Tasmanian Devil of packing and purging, getting things squared away through the stages of first getting ready to stage to sell, then minimizing down to what we absolutely needed for the last few weeks while we prepped the new-to-us house, then the last things before we evacuated. I was a machine, constantly repeating the phrase "Trust me, fam, we're in good shape, I've done this more than I care to think about, it's a lot but we've got this" as each box gets packed and each room becomes less of a home and more of a naked shell.
When you're moving and you're in this flurry of activity to get it all done, at some point you look around and the space you've occupied is now empty. In this case, the space was our first house. Our first space that was truly ours. We celebrated 12 years of birthdays and Christmases in that house. Both of our kids came home through the front door of that house, because we thought that they - like us and every friend and family member welcomed to our home for the first time before them - deserved a grand entrance through the front door and not the basement next to the garage. First birthday cake smashes. First steps. First tooth fairy visits. Snow days. The most amazing octogenarian neighbors who loved our kids like their own grandkids.
We sat on the floor of the kitchen in our first house, eating takeout dinner and sharing our favorite memories. Our laughs echoed, the sad and excited tears of our kids fell to the floor. Cleaning up the vestiges of our last meal in the house, my husband took the kids outside to play in the yard one last time while I stayed behind in the kitchen to set up the small gifts and menus and brochures from our town I had gathered for the new family with the toddler that was moving in.
I turned one last time to look at the empty kitchen that I had packed and purged and had made my home office for the last decade after leaving work to be home full-time. I looked out the back deck door at my family running around making one last set of joyful memories before we turned the page to a new chapter in a new house with a new yard and a new set of neighbors who would love my kids so well.
A house is just a thing. I move on from things.
But things serve us, and this house turned us from a couple of crazy late-20s kids into a couple of early 40s adults. This house watched us grow from a fairly newly married couple into a full-blown family. This house held us during a pandemic and was a constant when uncertainty ran rampant. This house showed us independence and helped us mature and grow.
I looked at the plant and the sidewalk chalk and the folded menus and brochures on the island and looked at the space that had once been filled with things and was now empty. This kitchen, this house, this toy that I and my family had outgrown and were ready to pass along to the next family.
I took a deep breath. And then somewhere, something, some well of suppressed emotion that I had put a cap on while I purged and packed and packed and purged and moved all of our things from one place to hold our stuff to another place to hold our stuff just erupted. I stood there, in the middle of the kitchen, the ugliest of ugly cries spilling out of my depths and pouring out, covering the walls with a dozen years of memories and stories and love.
My husband through some cosmic spousal connection at that moment looked through the back deck door and saw me standing there, arms at my side like some sort of physically paralyzed yet emotionally collapsing doll, and ran into the house. He held me, he let me cry it out, sharing in the outpouring of emotion that somehow I had been the last one to grab the rail and jump on the feelings train as it pulled out of the station a minute after departure time.
The money that exchanged from buyer to seller in the closing of the sale of our first house, one that became our home and saw us grow into a family, was paltry in comparison to the memories we made and took with us. It's nothing compared to the couple who bought it and who are now making their own roots and memories and growing their own family within its walls.
I never did follow Marie Kondo or jump on the KonMari bandwagon.
But things serve us. And though we may purge them and send them to the next person in a cycle of usage that lasts as long as the object does, the memory impact is much longer. The memories are part of our story, part of what makes us who we are.
Thank you, Pretend Food. Thank you, Mint Green Colonial.
Books move. All of the books move. Don't judge. And while you're at it, don't look at my "To Be Read" list on The Storygraph either.
In the late spring of 2022, a house came on the market in our town that after 5 years of passively watching the market my husband and I agreed fit both of our checklists. We looked at it, put in an offer, and against every odd we had stacked up against ourselves in our head - it was accepted.
I immediately went into action. I worked my whole life for this. I moved 9 times in my life before I went to college and countless times in and out of dorms during the course of my Bachelor's degree. No, family, we are not going to just throw it in a box and then sort through it when we get to the new place. That's how we never get rid of things and become keepers of boxes of unused things. I became a Tasmanian Devil of packing and purging, getting things squared away through the stages of first getting ready to stage to sell, then minimizing down to what we absolutely needed for the last few weeks while we prepped the new-to-us house, then the last things before we evacuated. I was a machine, constantly repeating the phrase "Trust me, fam, we're in good shape, I've done this more than I care to think about, it's a lot but we've got this" as each box gets packed and each room becomes less of a home and more of a naked shell.
When you're moving and you're in this flurry of activity to get it all done, at some point you look around and the space you've occupied is now empty. In this case, the space was our first house. Our first space that was truly ours. We celebrated 12 years of birthdays and Christmases in that house. Both of our kids came home through the front door of that house, because we thought that they - like us and every friend and family member welcomed to our home for the first time before them - deserved a grand entrance through the front door and not the basement next to the garage. First birthday cake smashes. First steps. First tooth fairy visits. Snow days. The most amazing octogenarian neighbors who loved our kids like their own grandkids.
We sat on the floor of the kitchen in our first house, eating takeout dinner and sharing our favorite memories. Our laughs echoed, the sad and excited tears of our kids fell to the floor. Cleaning up the vestiges of our last meal in the house, my husband took the kids outside to play in the yard one last time while I stayed behind in the kitchen to set up the small gifts and menus and brochures from our town I had gathered for the new family with the toddler that was moving in.
I turned one last time to look at the empty kitchen that I had packed and purged and had made my home office for the last decade after leaving work to be home full-time. I looked out the back deck door at my family running around making one last set of joyful memories before we turned the page to a new chapter in a new house with a new yard and a new set of neighbors who would love my kids so well.
A house is just a thing. I move on from things.
But things serve us, and this house turned us from a couple of crazy late-20s kids into a couple of early 40s adults. This house watched us grow from a fairly newly married couple into a full-blown family. This house held us during a pandemic and was a constant when uncertainty ran rampant. This house showed us independence and helped us mature and grow.
I looked at the plant and the sidewalk chalk and the folded menus and brochures on the island and looked at the space that had once been filled with things and was now empty. This kitchen, this house, this toy that I and my family had outgrown and were ready to pass along to the next family.
I took a deep breath. And then somewhere, something, some well of suppressed emotion that I had put a cap on while I purged and packed and packed and purged and moved all of our things from one place to hold our stuff to another place to hold our stuff just erupted. I stood there, in the middle of the kitchen, the ugliest of ugly cries spilling out of my depths and pouring out, covering the walls with a dozen years of memories and stories and love.
My husband through some cosmic spousal connection at that moment looked through the back deck door and saw me standing there, arms at my side like some sort of physically paralyzed yet emotionally collapsing doll, and ran into the house. He held me, he let me cry it out, sharing in the outpouring of emotion that somehow I had been the last one to grab the rail and jump on the feelings train as it pulled out of the station a minute after departure time.
The money that exchanged from buyer to seller in the closing of the sale of our first house, one that became our home and saw us grow into a family, was paltry in comparison to the memories we made and took with us. It's nothing compared to the couple who bought it and who are now making their own roots and memories and growing their own family within its walls.
I never did follow Marie Kondo or jump on the KonMari bandwagon.
But things serve us. And though we may purge them and send them to the next person in a cycle of usage that lasts as long as the object does, the memory impact is much longer. The memories are part of our story, part of what makes us who we are.
Thank you, Pretend Food. Thank you, Mint Green Colonial.
We are grateful for how you served our family.
