Nobody warned me, whilst pregnant with the nearly 5 year old, that within a few short years I'd require a mansion with a skip permanently parked in the drive, to accommodate the sheer volume of stuff that would descend upon our home. My boy is a hoarder - the opposite of his mother. Charity shop clear-outs happen under the cover of darkness, swiftly, silently and only once he is certainly asleep. There are repercussions still, over a broken plastic straw he watched me sneak into the bin. I exaggerate not.
It weighs heavy on my mind, this Aladdin's cave of junk - where my son cannot see the wood for the trees. That he expects - and is given - new toys on an almost weekly basis. He is soon to be 5, the baby 1, and then letters to write to Santa Claus. I know not where the stuff will go.
I remember my toys - favourite things that were played with time and again - handled and loved and grown old from repetitive use. It would take a dozen children until middle age to wear and tear their way through our mass of playthings. But what to do? I see no way to turn the tide. To stop what others are keen to give. A land of plenty where I wish to live with less. Where drawers and cupboards don't split at the seams and 'the value of nothing' not such a cause for concern. Christmas is coming - and so is the stuff. To a house where we have no room left. If Santa fits down the chimney, he will be lucky to find a foot of space free on the floor... x