Just as I was getting settled into the evening, ready to enjoy some peace and quiet, Mr Surfer called me over in the kitchen. It was time; that unavoidable, most dreaded task of clearing out the shed. And as with any of these overwhelmingly massive chores, tackling the overcrowded space corner by corner is the only practical approach.
We’ve been talking about throwing out which of the twinlet’s baby clothes for a while now. And as they get older, the pile of what’s been outgrown just gets higher.
Begrudgingly, I walked into the kitchen to sort out the garbage bags. I promised myself I’d be stern; Throw out most of what is no longer used and only hang on to a few pieces as memorabilia.
But whom am I kidding?
I am the world’s worse hoarder. Why? Because I am the world’s soppiest sentimental wuss.
Scents; songs; a certain time of the day; all have their way in setting off the nostalgic button in my consciousness and I’m left floating on a myriad of memories. Short, yet significant snapshots of yesteryears.
Sorting through the bibs, newborn onesies, tiny booties, I grabbed items like I was shopping through a bargain bin.
I seem to impress Mr Surfer how I was able to pick up a piece of clothing and immediately recall which relative and friend gave it to us.
Some stuff I held tight and close to my face, trying to get a whiff of any new baby smell remnants.
I made sure we kept everything the boys wore during their time in NICU; the handme down onesies that were still too big despite being size 00000; the ugly singlets stamped with “NSW Health” in prison red, the blankets that kept them warm and close together in the nursery while we weren’t there with them.
Wondering how we got from size “Prem” to now, it was inevitable I got teary.
Knowing the sentimental fool I am, Mr Surfer instructed, “Whatever you want to keep, keep. Don’t think about space.”
So, I did.
So much for ruthless culling. It’s just not in me, man. It’s just not.
Are you an expert at culling? Or a sentimental hoarder like me?