by Cathy
The other evening, my six-year old walks determinately into the living room where my husband and I were engrossed in an episode of Southland, and asks in a rather demanding tone:
"Mommy, why are my school papers in the garbage?"
I stop short of the formerly captivating television show to deal with the drama unfolding in my living room.
I look over at her, one hand pinned just so on her hip, the other hand thrust forward holding the accordion-folded stack of papers I had just hours ago, unsuccessfully disposed of in our kitchen garbage bin.
Oh crap. I thought I hid those!
"Why do you always throw my school papers away?" she persisted as my mind reeled about how to respond.
Fumbling over what to say, I look over at my husband to find his face buried in the crook of his elbow, head bobbing up and down with silent, but apparently uncontrollable laughter. I shot him the look of death and turned to face my daughter, who was shooting me the look of death.
Why does she automatically assume it's me?!? Maybe because this isn't the first time this has happened. My excuse of, "Oh no! They must have accidentally fallen into the garbage!" barely passed muster the first time and didn't cut the mustard at all on the second. So after that, I learned my lesson and began folding up the papers and tucking sideways under banana peels and coffee grinds so that they couldn't be seen. This day, I apparently forgot to be sneaky.
It's not that I don't love keeping every cute, meaningful little art project, note and drawing from my children; in fact, I have stacks in the storage from each school grade for each kid. (And even those I had to riffle through alone in the confines of my dungeon storage, away from the prying eyes of my hoarding family.) As much as they want me to, I just can't keep every scribble of scrap paper and every puppet made out of a brown paper bag; I just keep what I perceive to be the milestones, the special, the unique items.
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| All of this cannot - and will not - be saved |
I turned to look my six-year old straight in the eyes and said, "Oh honey, we don't need all of those. I already kept your important papers."
Before her look of mortification could be expressed verbally, my husband jumps in in the form of Captain Dad, to apparently save the day.
"Honey, you can put those on my nightstand. I'll file them away."
Ta da da DA!
"No," I stopped his rescue mission flat. "Just go put them with the other papers under the computer desk and I'll take care of them," I directed her.
Satisfied, she turned on her heel and marched into the kitchen to complete her task.
My husband turns to me, and says rather matter-of-factly: "Wow. You deserve the mother of the year award. Nice going."
"I'm not going to apologize for being practical," I retorted."I keep what I need to keep. I can't keep everything. I'm not a hoarder."
He looked at me, shaking his head.
This whole scenario reminded me of an episode of The Middle in which Brick, the youngest of three kids, finds the handmade card he lovingly created for his mother (and which she had just gushed over mere hours before) mockingly teetering atop a pile of garbage in their kitchen trash. After confronting her, Brick dared her to produce past projects of his, which she swears up and down she has kept. Needless to say, after ransacking her garage and even bribing a fellow neighbor to use one of her kids' projects as a stand-in, she was found guilty on all charges. Feeling horrible, she creates a beautiful heart-shaped card with a thoughtful, tearjerker of an apology and places it on Brick's bed. Guess where that ended up.
While I would never throw away a handmade card from my kids, I wouldn't think twice about ditching math tests or spelling quizzes. After all, one person's "treasure" can be another person's hoarding nightmare.
