My Kids Think I’m a Hoarder

By then, I had over 1,000 trinkets crowding the glass shelves of a curio cabinet suffering from an identity crisis. When my minimalist-driven kids staged an intervention over what they considered the beginnings of a hoarding disorder, I validated my behavior, claiming that one day my collectibles would be worth a fortune, and I was saving everything as part of their inheritance. This was met with a look of horror on their faces. “Mom, nobody wants your ‘Coffee Makes Me Poop’ mug!”

My son actually threatened to Marie Kondo my house after I pass away, while my daughter said she’d never forgive me if I left my extensive inventory of Disney souvenirs for her to sort through. They offered to keep useful items, such as televisions and electronic gadgets. No fine china, heirloom silverware, scrapbooks or granny’s quilts for them! The kids pushed for me to adopt a “less-is- more” attitude, so I promised I’d stop collecting more stuff. ... But I never promised to get rid of what I already had.

I couldn’t bear the thought of it, because although not every item I saved was worth money, they each held sentimental value to me that I wasn’t ready to part with.

My emotional connection to the memories these items provoked, especially the heirloom pieces, prevented me from letting them go. The thought of my kids chucking it all away after I passed gave me anxiety.

Why did my personal stuff mean so little to them? What if they needed it later on, or regretted tossing my seven tin boxes of old family recipes when they cooked? I tried to stick to my promise of decluttering, but during the pandemic, while everyone was hoarding toilet paper, I started hoarding cheerful tiki mugs to escape my obsessive fear of contracting the deadly virus. The pandemic also taught me to buy twos and threes of everything since we were facing shortages.

Amazon became my best friend during lockdown, turning me into a compulsive buyer of things I thought I might need but never used — and many are still on my shelves, with the price tags attached. I also kept all the sturdy Amazon boxes in which my items were shipped because I never knew when I’d need a good box to pack more of my stuff.

The boxes overflowed in my house, and the day an avalanche of them fell on my husband in the laundry room was the day he’d had enough. “Most people collect fine art, but you collect boxes,” he yelled. My husband argued that if there were ever a fire, our house would quickly burn to the ground like a tinderbox with all the cardboard I’d collected.

I knew he was right, but letting go of the things I’d saved was too overwhelming to consider. Even after he tossed half of my boxes into the trash, I later rummaged through the garbage and retrieved a few I was certain I’d need. And yet I still didn’t consider myself a hoarder.

Wasn’t I practical for saving and reusing items, unlike others in our throw-away society? My Depression-era ancestors knew how to save a dollar by reusing month-old bacon fat to brown a roast or grease squeaky door hinges. They kept stuff forever, including old underwear, which was later turned into dust-cleaning rags. No one accused them of being hoarders. They were savvy savers!

When my husband suggested selling our house once we retired and moving into an RV full-time to travel, I felt equal parts dread and excitement. Dread, because of the daunting task of throwing away my nostalgic possessions, and excitement, to finally be free of the sentimental objects cluttering my house and my life.

If decluttering my home feels overwhelming to me, I can’t imagine how my kids would feel going through thousands of tchotchkes, souvenirs and clothing. Nor can I expect them to feel an emotional connection to these items, even though they mean something to me.

I know I need to declutter my home to spare my kids the burden of dispersing and disposing, but I hate the idea of my possessions going to waste.

My daughter, however, had a wonderful solution for this. Her friend’s parents collected hundreds of cow figurines. When they passed away, a table laden with their collection was present at their funerals. Guests were invited to take a cow home as a loving reminder of the deceased. I like this idea, and it gives me great comfort knowing someone else might actually enjoy my tchotchkes. Perhaps my vast inventory of squirrel figurines will make someone happy ... and become a starter kit for a critter collection of their own.

AARP essays share a point of view in the author’s voice, drawn from expertise or experience, and do not necessarily reflect the views of AARP.