Offending toy collectors everywhere
Back to Emily's closet: When we moved into this house three years ago, I was five months pregnant, Emily had just turned one, and we were two short weeks away from having five houseguests for ten days. Those three reasons are why many boxes of totchkes (vases, framed pictures, ornamental doodads, stuff I had carted from my old job, etc.) found their way into our storage room closet.
Since that time, the storage room has become Emily's bedroom. But the closet in the storage room still holds our camping equipment, our forty spare rolls of toilet paper, tons of random stuff from Mike's bachelor days, and yes, those boxes of totchkes.
Today I forced Mike to admit that he no longer needed his old stereo speakers, VCR, multi-disk CD changer, and tape deck. That stuff now is sitting out on our driveway with a Free! Works! sign on it. Then I admitted to myself that I no longer needed all of the toys that once adorned my desk at work and labeled me as "cool" and "unlike you."
Less than thirty minutes ago, I committed the most heinous crime of toy collectors everywhere:
I took the toys out of their protective plastic packaging.
I gave them to a child.
Emily is now playing happily with a bunch of detailed scale replica motorcycles and a plastic figurine of Elvis that's permanently stuck in an odd position; he was never meant to leave his box.
The best part? I'm not sorry in the least. Also, the camping stuff is back in the closet. Hallelujah and praise Elvis.