It happened more often in the months, first few years following the move into my first apartment, knowing it would be the last time I would be living in the home I grew up in.
My parents would ask, “Hey Liz, when are you coming to pick up your stuff?”
I think the “stuff” at the time included University textbooks that were so outrageously overpriced, the idea of selling them at a heavy discount or donating them, stripped years off of my life and also, I would need those books if that recurring dream about being one credit shy of graduating came true and I would have no choice but to shred the pages into confetti in front of the Registrar’s house.
Stuff? I think I took everything a very small, one bedroom apartment could hold. I could move only the essentials; milk crate night stands, wooden spool coffee table and bricks to build an entertainment unit. Things like Brownie badges, macrame wall art and grade one journals while instrumental in helping me become the person I am, were no value to us unless to prop up a lopsided futon.
Consequently, they got shoved into my parent’s basement which is where they would spend their golden years.
My parents stopped asking and just started dragging bags behind them every time they came for a visit. They secretly filled their trunk with boxes, trunks, duffel bags full of doll clothes, gymnastics medals (2) and almost as many stuffed animals as my kids have now.
Greg’s parents did the same.
We had plastic bins of 80’s records stopping leaks under the bathroom vanity and old recorders people would attempt to play “Hot Cross Buns” on when they would come for a visit.
There was no room for all of the stuff.
It occurred to me yesterday when I stopped counting my kid’s plush toy collection when I hit a kazillion, these are the things Greg and I are going to be dragging behind us when our kids move out.
They have even more stuff than we had and just last week introduced yet another recorder and more sheet music for “Hot Cross Buns.”
I guess it’s true. Some things never change.
