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View as: GRID LIST

How ‘Stuff’ Doesn’t Matter

1
I come from a family of hoarders. My Mum is a hoarder. My Granny too (mainly Pope memorabilia). I never met my Great Granny but am sure she would have been a hoarder if she’d had enough money to buy stuff and wasn’t toiling away as a maid on an estate in the Midlands.

If someone is about to visit my Mum for the first time I warn them about the sheer amount of stuff they’ll see. She has a room dedicated to sewing. A wardrobe that only contains wool. In the front room she has sixteen empty chairs awaiting a small orchestra to  provide a musical

SelfishMother.com
2
accompaniment to Poirot. She collects miniature shampoos. She’s saved my milk teeth, my sisters’ milk teeth and the dog’s milk teeth. It is not unusual to find a plastic bag full of hair in the loft (she saves all the family hair in case any of us go bald). The house swoons with the weight of stuff.

I thought I’d escaped the hoarder bug. I thought I was different. But it turns out it’s a modern malaise. We all have too much.

According to James Wallman’s recent book – ‘Stuffication’ – the average British woman buys 58 items of

SelfishMother.com
3
clothing each year and there are 22 in her wardrobe that she never wears. I am not the average woman. I probably buy double that and have 58 items that will never see the light of day.

My clothing hoarding took on a new dimension with online shopping. This is my biggest vice (aside from wine). If I’m feeling sad I will pick up a Zara shirt. If I’m sleep deprived I’ll go on Boden to suss out whether the clothes are still designed for Kirsty Allsopp or whether they’ve moved on (they have).

Every six weeks I fill a bag with clothing and take

SelfishMother.com
4
it to the charity shop. Sometimes I’ll pop into the self-same shop, spot something I like and realise that it’s an old dress I took in the week before. I could wear something different every day and be rocking a fresh denim shirtdress and sweatshirt when I’m eighty-five (a nice idea but should I be investing in clothes that I’ll only get to wear in forty-odd years?)

And becoming a parent has only made things worse. The combination of hope, vulnerability and tiredness makes Mums the perfect target for advertising. So the buggy snuggles,

SelfishMother.com
5
‘white noise’ sleep machines, specially shaped spoons to aid weaning, walker toys, jigsaws (HOW I HATE JIGSAWS!) and soft toys arrived. There’s now a pile of dead toys in each room. I say ‘dead’ because they’ve never actually been played with. My daughter would rather have my purse or lipstick and roll around in my unworn clothes than play with something that’s been expressively bought for that function.

What I hate most are the little bits of plastic. The red ball from the ‘Hungry Hippos’ game, the Mr Tumble from the CBeebies mag,

SelfishMother.com
6
one shoe from a doll that has disappeared anyway. These little bits serve as a persistent reminder of how the stuff is taking over. I pick up plastic bits and put them in my pocket. I put them in the bin. I find the bits again and put them in my pocket. I put them in the bin.  It’s ’plastic bit purgatory’.

I fantasise about hiring a skip. All we really need is a toothbrush, clean pants and a coat (maybe trousers and some books and a nice pair of shoes) And all our kids need is our stuff to play with (maybe not the pants). At some point in the

SelfishMother.com
7
future the charity shop will no longer be willing to take my crap. My bank account will be empty. There will be a loft full of hair and milk teeth. A front room full of vacant chairs and silence. It will be too late.

So listen to my warning. Remember when you’re old you won’t be wishing you’d bought a pinafore dress from Asos. Your daughter won’t give a crap about the mini-kitchen you didn’t invest in either. All your stuff will end up in a skip sooner or later.

Only the memories will count.

SelfishMother.com

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- 17 Sep 15

I come from a family of hoarders. My Mum is a hoarder. My Granny too (mainly Pope memorabilia). I never met my Great Granny but am sure she would have been a hoarder if she’d had enough money to buy stuff and wasn’t toiling away as a maid on an estate in the Midlands.

If someone is about to visit my Mum for the first time I warn them about the sheer amount of stuff they’ll see. She has a room dedicated to sewing. A wardrobe that only contains wool. In the front room she has sixteen empty chairs awaiting a small orchestra to  provide a musical accompaniment to Poirot. She collects miniature shampoos. She’s saved my milk teeth, my sisters’ milk teeth and the dog’s milk teeth. It is not unusual to find a plastic bag full of hair in the loft (she saves all the family hair in case any of us go bald). The house swoons with the weight of stuff.

I thought I’d escaped the hoarder bug. I thought I was different. But it turns out it’s a modern malaise. We all have too much.

According to James Wallman’s recent book – ‘Stuffication’ – the average British woman buys 58 items of clothing each year and there are 22 in her wardrobe that she never wears. I am not the average woman. I probably buy double that and have 58 items that will never see the light of day.

My clothing hoarding took on a new dimension with online shopping. This is my biggest vice (aside from wine). If I’m feeling sad I will pick up a Zara shirt. If I’m sleep deprived I’ll go on Boden to suss out whether the clothes are still designed for Kirsty Allsopp or whether they’ve moved on (they have).

Every six weeks I fill a bag with clothing and take it to the charity shop. Sometimes I’ll pop into the self-same shop, spot something I like and realise that it’s an old dress I took in the week before. I could wear something different every day and be rocking a fresh denim shirtdress and sweatshirt when I’m eighty-five (a nice idea but should I be investing in clothes that I’ll only get to wear in forty-odd years?)

And becoming a parent has only made things worse. The combination of hope, vulnerability and tiredness makes Mums the perfect target for advertising. So the buggy snuggles, ‘white noise’ sleep machines, specially shaped spoons to aid weaning, walker toys, jigsaws (HOW I HATE JIGSAWS!) and soft toys arrived. There’s now a pile of dead toys in each room. I say ‘dead’ because they’ve never actually been played with. My daughter would rather have my purse or lipstick and roll around in my unworn clothes than play with something that’s been expressively bought for that function.

What I hate most are the little bits of plastic. The red ball from the ‘Hungry Hippos’ game, the Mr Tumble from the CBeebies mag, one shoe from a doll that has disappeared anyway. These little bits serve as a persistent reminder of how the stuff is taking over. I pick up plastic bits and put them in my pocket. I put them in the bin. I find the bits again and put them in my pocket. I put them in the bin.  It’s ‘plastic bit purgatory’.

I fantasise about hiring a skip. All we really need is a toothbrush, clean pants and a coat (maybe trousers and some books and a nice pair of shoes) And all our kids need is our stuff to play with (maybe not the pants). At some point in the future the charity shop will no longer be willing to take my crap. My bank account will be empty. There will be a loft full of hair and milk teeth. A front room full of vacant chairs and silence. It will be too late.

So listen to my warning. Remember when you’re old you won’t be wishing you’d bought a pinafore dress from Asos. Your daughter won’t give a crap about the mini-kitchen you didn’t invest in either. All your stuff will end up in a skip sooner or later.

Only the memories will count.

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I'm Super Editor here at SelfishMother.com and love reading all your fantastic posts and mulling over all the complexities of modern parenting. We have a fantastic and supportive community of writers here and I've learnt just how transformative and therapeutic writing can me. If you've had a bad day then write about it. If you've had a good day- do the same! You'll feel better just airing your thoughts and realising that no one has a master plan. I'm Mum to a daughter who's 3 and my passions are writing, reading and doing yoga (I love saying that but to be honest I'm no yogi).

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