I’m a hoarder.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a hoarder like you see on those reality shows on TV. But I do hoard.
I hoard all those childhood mementos that belong to my children, and I also have plenty of my own.
One of my favourites is a “name train” that we bought for James when he was only 3 months old. We found it in a stall down at the Sunday markets in Manly. It was such a sweet ornament, and I never really thought that we would still have it 7 years on. And yet we do. It sits on top of his bedside drawers, as it has done since he was a tiny baby. He loves it, and so do I. It will most certainly go into the “mementos box” that I have for James, along with all his special birthday cards, his school reports and photos, his outstanding artworks, his photo books, and the beautiful presents he has made me over the years for Mothers Day and Christmas. It will also join his hospital bracelets from when he was born, the birth notice from The Manly Daily, the lock of hair from his very first hair cut, and his many ultrasound pictures. And then there’s his preschool portfolios. There are even baby outfits that I have kept for each child, and eventually their favourite childhood toys will become resident in these boxes.
Yes, I have kept every single one of these things. Not just for James, but for all four of my children. I hope that in years to come they will look through those boxes and try to remember the moments in time from where these items originated. I still have many of my own childhood memories in a box. Not as many as my kids have, but still plenty to reminisce over.
And so I will continue to hoard. Some may call it junk, I call it “unforgettable moments”. Every single item is special, precious in it’s own way.
And every single item tells a story that should not be forgotten.