No. I’m not talking about getting permission from my child to throw her stuff away.
I’m talking about giving myself permission.
Permission to finally throw away these once-loved-but-no-longer-used items.
Books are nice. They rarely feel like clutter, and are so easily donated.
Toys with lots-of-teeny-tiny-parts? They’re not nice. They feel like clutter on Day One, and they’re a nightmare to donate.
A combination book/toy-with-lots-of-teeny-tiny-parts? It’s like a torture device designed specifically for Slob Mamas.
The hopelessness of ever finding all the parts.
The guilt of throwing away a perfectly good book.
I consider this a head-exploding decision. And if you’ll remember, I recently decided that if an item makes me feel that my head is going to explode . . . I’m just going to throw it away.
Not donate it.
I’m doing my duty as an anti-clutter advocate. I’m sparing the person who has to sort the donations. I’m improving the efficiency of that thrift store by removing the need for the employees to agonize over this decision. I’m sparing the mother who hopes her child won’t notice that this book is supposed to have a little projector and lots of teeny-tiny slide-thingies.
Because we all know they’re going to notice.
I used to donate imperfect things hoping someone would buy it who had the same vision for its possibilities that I had.
AND the drive to actually follow through on those possibilities. Which I didn’t have.
I’m still questioning whether I made the right decision. But I can’t really worry about it since the trash went out this morning.
And the fact that I can’t worry about it makes me totally glad I did it.
See my decluttering page for lots of decluttering examples and lots of tips on how to declutter.