In my 20s, I booked a one-way ticket from Australia to Canada and sold almost all of my worldly possessions. I had a garage sale and offloaded the lot.
When I got on that airplane, I felt lighter than I ever had before. There was a certain freedom in being free of material possessions that I’d never known and grew to love.
For years, I traveled light through life, living out of a backpack and only buying what I really needed.
Then I had kids, and all of that changed.
First there were the baby bouncers and the teething toys, the toddler gates and the walkers. Then came the dollies and the skateboards, the soccer balls and the exploding arts and crafts box.
Eight years on, our rather compact house often feels like it’s about to burst at the seams. Every cupboard is jam-packed with gadgets and toys, baby blankets and yesterday’s fads.
If I sit on my couch at any given time, inevitably my backside will come into contact with something hard — usually a stray Lego. I’ll discover a doll’s leg wedged under a pillow or find NERF gun bullets shoved into a crevice.
I sometimes feel claustrophobic in my own home. There’s just SO. MUCH. CLUTTER.
I’ve reached the point where I’m over it. I love my children dearly and I want them to have some treats, but the amount of stuff they have acquired in their short little lives is beyond a joke.
When I was little, I had one beloved teddy and a handful of fairy figurines. I adored all of them, and 38 years later, they are all still intact.
Some of the worst culprits when it comes to buying junk for the kids are my parents. They mean well, but I don’t want them to spend money on toys or material possessions that the kids will grow bored of within days. We all know they’re usually destined for a landfill or Goodwill.
So, this year I’ve asked my parents to give my kids something a little different for their birthdays. The idea came to me while I was reading one of my favorite childhood books to my 5-year-old daughter.
Inside the cover is a handwritten inscription from my late grandmother. It says, “I love this book about a cat and something she loves very much. Please keep it forever and one day you can read it to your little girl. Love, Gran.”
Whenever I see my grandmother’s distinctive writing, so many memories come flooding back — like how she always sang when she drove. She’d pick me up after school and take me for an ice cream. Then we’d watch movies like “My Fair Lady” all afternoon together.
There’s something so special about the details in remembering someone, and that’s what my grandmother’s handwriting does for me. It’s a powerful reminder of a loved one who is no longer with us, a bit like their favorite perfume.
It’s for these reasons and more that I’ve asked my parents to write my three children a letter for their birthdays this year. When I pitched the idea to my parents, they appeared to be confused as to why they weren’t allowed to buy the grandkids fun toys anymore. But after explaining my reasoning, they were completely on board.
I suggested they include all the good stuff: their stories and words of wisdom about what’s important in life. The lessons they’ve learned along the way. What traits they see in my children that remind them of themselves at their age. And what they love most about each child.
Like my note from my grandma, it will give them strength through the goodbyes and help them to remember the details when they’re gone.
Sure, my kids might grumble when they realize Nana and Pop haven’t sent a multicolored mermaid in the mail or a new set of Pokémon cards. But I know in the long run, they will treasure this gift more than any other, just as I have.