I tease my wife’s parents for their inability to throw anything away. Their basement is filled with artifacts from decades long since gone.
And while it’s true that they are a little obsessive about saving things, I’m also envious of the results.
My children love going to their grandparents’ house and playing with the questionably safe toys from my wife’s childhood. I can’t imagine how it must feel for my wife to watch her kids play with some of her favorite toys from her youth.
A baby blanket from her childhood recently made its way into our home, and even though it’s a simple, pink blanket, our kids love it. When my daughter isn’t snuggling with it, our son is using it to play peek-a-boo.
The idea that my children are playing with a blanket that my wife once slept under as a child is unfathomable to me.
The only thing I own from my pre-adult life is a stuffed dog resembling Snoopy that I was given on the day I was born. It’s wearing a shirt that I stole from one of my sister’s dolls.
It’s ancient, fragile, and can no longer be played with. It sits atop a dresser in our bedroom alongside a teddy bear that my wife was given as a baby.
The stuffed dog is all I’ve got. The combination of an unexpected divorce, sudden financial ruin, an evil stepfather, the foreclosure of the family home, and a general lack of sentimentality in my parents has left me without treasures from my childhood.
Instead, I watch my children play with my wife’s childhood treasures and try to imagine how that must feel for both her and them.
