Clay and Beads are Killing Me
About a year or so ago -- I can't really remember -- one of my kids did an art project that resulted in one small round ball of blue clay with beads and beans stuck all over it. It was really pretty cool looking.
But that little blue ball became a symbol for me of "The Curse of the Can't Throw Aways." It was special to the kid who had made it. And every so often, if it had gotten lost, someone would find it and much rejoicing would ensue. I grew to hate that little ball because it, like so many other things around here, became part of the clutter that I do not know what to do with, the clutter that threatens to take over and one day crush us all in our sleep. The clutter I engage my Sysiphian battle with on a daily basis, usually losing. No good place to keep it or display it; no good way to toss it without grievously injuring some small feelings.
A week ago, it somehow ended up in my car, where it met its final demise under the feet of five kids climbing in and out. Again, much rejoicing! But of course, from me this time. I finally got to throw it away -- YIPPEE!
Yesterday, three of my kids spent the day with a very good friend of mine and she did all kinds of fun projects with them. They each came home with TWO bead-encrusted clay balls. Which means I now have six of them.
The parenting gods (for they surely are not goddesses, who would be much kinder) are cruel to the mothers of the world.