I've been cleaning out Lucy's room. A brief inventory tells it all. What I found: Detritus from the plastic tide constantly battering our shore. News: we are losing to the tide. I found myself picking up tiny pieces of plastic asking, "What IS this?" A bolt from the space shuttle? A prized gem? The one little thingie that fits into the other thingie? I have several Ikea containers of items for which I couldn't answer that question. If in the next three weeks, nothing collapses and no fits are thrown, they're gone.
Several caches of acorns and pecans. Is she a squirrel? Is it wartime? Are we not feeding her enough?
Approximately 1,327 stickers. About 1% of which were adhered to inappropriate surfaces.
Three containers of Scotch tape. This in house with a child who is always either asking 1) "Can I watch TV?" or 2) "Where is the tape?" Where IS the damn tape? Oh, it's in your room.
Those lost socks. Luckily, she's down with the non-matching-socks fashion statement.
Oh, the rocks. So many rocks. And shells. And even another dang bone (smallish — a deer foot, maybe?), despite my blanket ban on any new bones coming into this house. She's a freaking archaeologist.
Trash. Really, this is a whole category of stuff ranging from gum wrappers to popsicle sticks (used, people, not the kind intended for crafts) to cardboard of any kind. I hate to stifle a burgeoning artist whose primary medium is the found, but ew. One must draw a line. Mine is the UNWASHED CUP used as part of baseball stadium model.
Necklaces, bracelets, makeup brushes, tubes of lip balm. All of which are MINE. Finding my lost stuff in her nest is both annoying and sweet. I choose to think of these stashes as little altars to mom.
The starts of many stories. I have to confess to saving choice pieces of paper — any artifact or memory that could be filed away.
We're not done by a long shot, but at least no one from TLC (or CPS) is coming.
p.s. PLEASE, don't buy her anything. I will pay you not to.